Odds and Ends
by DrunkOnWriting
Summary: "When she sees him the color in her face drains, like she's seeing a ghost. 'James' she breathes, eyes wide and unbelieving; his answer is the brightest grin he's worn in a long time. That grin, however, is short lived as a glass goes flying by his head."
1. Chapter 1

**Dude, if I owned the A-Team, I'd be on an extended vacation somewhere in Europe.**

Odds and Ends

Murdock impatiently hums _the Downeaster Alexa _under his breath as his fingers restlessly tap out the beat on the worn upholstery of the ancient van; Billy whines softly from his spot on the floor, as anxious as he.

"'S ok, bud." He whispers, patting the dog on the head, "Almost there." If his team heard him, they gave no indication; they are all too tired and too used to their pilot's mumblings to care. "There are giants out there in the canyons_…_" he sings gently as Face's snore fills the vehicle, "_…_and a good captain can't fall asleep_…_"

"Murdock!" B.A. snaps from behind the wheel; the captain jumps slightly, eyes wide.

"Sorry, Bosco." He replies, a sheepish, twitchy smile on his lips; Hannibal twists around in the passenger seat to face him, deep, permanent worry lines that hadn't been there seven months ago eerily illuminated by the glowing green dashboard.

"And you're sure no one's keeping tabs on her, right, Murdock?" the colonel asks again; Murdock nods enthusiastically.

"Yes, sir, no one we know knows who she is, sir." He replies brightly; Hannibal nods, chewing thoughtfully on his cigar, and turns around; Murdock knows the Bossman doesn't like taking such a risk, but at the moment they have no other options; they need a hideout, someplace to lay low, until they can figure out a plan. "Remember, B.A., it's 45 East Street." The mountainous man snorts.

"I know, fool, you've been tellin' me that since we started drivin'. Now shut yo trap." Murdock simply smiles his crazy little smile and goes back to staring at the passing corn fields; they're in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the stars and the occasional farm house as witnesses to their journey.

He likes it like this; the quiet, the dark, with his team around him like a comforting blanket, a shield against the thing in his brain that's not supposed to be there, the part that makes him crazy. When he's tiptoeing around the insanity, when it's _this close_ to burying him so deep he can't be sure who he is anymore, he thinks about moments like these; he pours all of his focus and energy into remembering B.A.'s scary, but oddly fond threats of dismemberment after he's annoyed him for too long, the way Face laughs after he's pulled off a particularly hard con, how, back in Mexico, Hannibal put his complete faith into the pilot, even when everyone told him not too, even when Murdock was unsure of himself, the way Shannon sees him, _only him_, and not the gleam in his eye that the other thing put there.

"…they say these waters aren't what they used to be, but I've got people back on land who count…"

"Fool, do I have to break yo jaw to get you to shut up?"

"Sorry, Bosco." Murdock mimes zipping his lips shut and tosses the key out the window; Billy, yearning for something to chase after being cooped up in the van for so long, whines again.

"I know, boy." He scratches the poor dog behind his ears, "Don't you worry; we'll be home soon and then you can run around as much as you want."

The dog barks in understanding and rests his head on his paws with a quiet sigh; Murdock smiles and whispers that magic phrase again, to himself this time, and holds it close like a well-kept secret: _"We'll be home soon."_

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><p><strong><span>Ok, usually I'm not into the whole get-down-on-your-knees-and-beg-like-your-life-depends-on-it thing buuutttt...*dramatically falls to the ground* please, please pretty pretty please with a triple chocolate fudge brownie on top, review!<span>**


	2. Of Meetings and Broken Objects

**EeeeekkkZOMGtworeviewsI'msohappyrightnowI'!**

** *Takes deep, cleansing, calming breath* **

**Ok, sorry about that.**

**thanks and a whopping plate of cookies to:**

**dramagoddess202 (I'm in love with the username, by the way): wow, thank you so much! I really hope you like this next chapter! P.S, You are awesome**

**rubberducky2010: HI! *waves hand spastically* I can not tell you how thrilled I am that you like this! You are awesome, too! :D**

**And now, without further ado, I give you: the next chapter... **

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><p>They sit in the van, idling before a squat, minuscule house; with peeling robin's-egg blue paint and a sagging porch, surrounded on all sides by tall, sturdy trees that abruptly give way to a swaying ocean of corn, it's the very image of country-bumpkin innocence.<p>

Hannibal, however, had learned a long time ago to never, _ever_ trust someone—or, in this case, some_thing_—based on looks alone, and, with that in mind, he ordered B.A. to drive by not once, but twice, to check the perimeter, much to Murdock's dismay. Now, they're sitting motionless, like four highly-wanted ducks, practically triple-dog daring anyone watching the house to come investigate.

Face sighs and blearily runs a hand over his eyes, rubbing the sleep away; beside him, Murdock bounces in his seat, hand on the door handle, like an anxious dog ready to bolt at his master's command.

Face shakes his head in an attempt to dislodge the image of Hannibal tossing a ball for a collar-wearing Murdock, and decides that he needs more sleep.

"All clear now, Bossman?" the pilot asks hopefully, eyes shining with something that the conman can't quite put his finger on.

"Just a minute, Captain." Hannibal replies, his voice as tense as his shoulders; Murdock's crest-fallen face has Face reaching over to lay a reassuring hand on his friend's back.

"Don't worry, Murdock—after all, the Jedi master does know best." It takes Murdock's insane little giggle and B.A.'s muttered "Aw, hell, no, not another one." for him to grasp what he just said, and when he does it takes all of his willpower not to bash his head against the window; yes, he definitely needs more sleep, and maybe a little less time spent around the Star Wars loving pilot.

"Hey, Facey, you're startin' ta sound just like me!" Face turns toward Murdock, mouth open to reply, when something in the other man's face stops him, and he realizes that it's happiness that's making his friend's eyes glow like two brand-new light bulbs; happiness, mixed with a little bit of anticipation and a pinch of crazy sprinkled over the whole thing.

Just then, Hannibal gives the green light, but to _proceed with caution_.

Murdock is out of the van faster than Face can unbuckle his seat belt, and by the time he gets to the door the pilot is fumbling with a key found under an extremely large and extremely dead fern. Once the door is opened, they file into the pitch-black house; the conman closes the door, turns, and promptly trips over something—a pile of shoes?—and plows head-first into the leafy arms of another dead plant. There's just enough time for Face to mentally ask '_why me?'_ before both hurtle to the floor, the pot breaking into hundreds of pieces with a particularly loud _**crash! **_and dry fertilizer spilling across the dull brown carpet like sand. Murdock switches on the light and the three of them simply stare at their sputtering comrade with resigned looks.

"Hey, Bossman?" Murdock asks, without taking his eyes off of the spectacle before him.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Remember how you wanted me to wake Shannon gently so we could introduce ourselves?" the colonel nods, "Yeah, well, I don't think that's gonna happen."

"No, Murdock, I think not." Maybe it's just the soil in his ears, but Face can almost hear the thinly-veiled chuckle in the older man's voice.

Just as he manages to detangle himself from the offending foliage, stand up, and spit the last of the dirt out of his mouth, a new, snarling voice cuts through the air.

"And _who_ the _fuck_ are you?" The A-Team turns simultaneously to face a wild haired and equally wild eyed woman standing next to an end table littered with assorted cutlery and paintbrushes.

She's gripping a bat so hard that her knuckles are pale as snow and she looks _pissed_.

Face swears she's almost growling at them.

Then, Murdock takes a tiny step forward and the second her eyes land on him her face drains of all color, like she's seeing a ghost.

"James?" she breathes, lowering the bat as the feral look in her eyes fades to something resembling disbelief; Murdock's answer is simply the brightest grin he's worn in a long time.

That grin, however, is short lived as a half-filled glass goes flying by his head and shatters on the wall at his back. The pilot looks behind him at the wet spot marking where the glass collided with the unfortunate barrier, then back to the woman—Shannon?—who raises a trembling hand.

"Don't you _ever,_" the word is properly emphasized by an angry shake of her finger, "_ever _disappear on me like that again." She takes a deep breath and, gradually, the fury and doubt reluctantly give way to something deeper, more elusive, as Murdock's mouth curl upward into a soft smile.

"I won't." he vows as he lifts his hand, pinky extended, "Pinky promise." A cross between a chocked sob and a laugh bursts from her lips as she launches herself into the pilot arms.

Face looks down at the devastated plant, then at the destroyed remains of the glass, then back again and hopes that the rest of their stay here isn't as eventful as the past two minutes.

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><p><strong><span>Sooooo...questions? Compliments? Concerns? Call 1-800-REIVIEW <span>**

**...or just press the pretty blue button at the bottom of this page :)**


	3. Walls, Names, and War

**Hello again! So excited to see you! :D By the Way, if you recognize it, I don't own it! *melts into quivering puddle of sobbing goo***

***sight of reviews makes the tears go away***

**dramagoddess202: I LOVE YOU! but not in a creepy, stalker way, because I'm sixteen and I have _a lot _of people to stalk (today is all about Zachery Quinto :D)**

**MadTeaLady: Thank you so much! *hands over tea set with pretty painted sunflowers on it* Enjoy, Mon Ami!**

**So, this chapter is a bit longer than the other two, but I know it's still relatively short and I'll try to work on that in the future :)**

**And now *ridiculously long drum roll* SILENCE! *drums stop* CHAPTER THREE! **

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><p>Before Murdock came along, Shannon Jackson had never given a thought to something as silly as a home invasion; she was born and bred in the country South, after all, where everybody knew everybody else, no one bothered to lock their doors and a little extra dessert was always made for the neighbors, because you never knew when someone might be in need of a sweet and sugary pick-me-up.<p>

When she hears the unmistakable sound of breaking pottery at two in the morning, though, she's extremely glad her pilot made her buy a bat and stash it under the bed until she remembers to apply for a gun permit.

And then she sees that same pilot standing in their living room, with that familiar 1,000-wat grin on his face and she's so ecstatic and stunned that he's _here _in their house that the other three men don't even register because _Murdock is alive!_

And _then_ she realizes that Murdock has _been_ alive; alive and relatively well for the past twenty three days, while she's been imagining the absolute worst since she's heard about their break-out and it's all she can do not to march over there and bitch slap him into next Christmas because_ goddamn it, why didn't he call?_

Instead, she settles for throwing the nearest object at hand—which happens to be the wine glass she used to down a bottle of Jim Beam so she could hopefully sleep without nightmares of her boyfriend's chopper being shot down by federal agents.

She misses by a hair—which serves to only make her angrier—but somehow Murdock's Pinky Promise to never vanish into thin air again makes all the rage and fear and the agony of waiting for _something_ acceptable; and before she knows it, she's across the room, kissing him like there's no tomorrow—and with him she can never really be sure there will be—until the awkward shuffling of feet and the not-so-subtle throat clearing reminds her that there are other people in the room.

She breaks away, but instead of turning to face her guests, like she intended, she buries her face in his chest with an embarrassed little giggle and…why is he wearing a very crumpled, very torn suit that smells faintly of firework smoke? And what's up with the ketchup on his shirt? She pulls farther away, arms still around his neck, mouth open to ask him…._holy shit is that a bandage on his arm?_ She looks at him, then at the white gauze on his bicep, then back again; of course, he answers her before she has to ask.

"'S nothing." He kisses her lightly on the lips, "A guard shot at me while we were escaping earlier. Just barely grazed the skin."

"You had to escape lawful custody _again_?" she gives a mock disappointed sigh and shakes her head.

"Actually," he replies, trying and failing to keep a defensive frown on his very kissable lips, "It was very _un_lawful custody, because we are in the right, right, Hannibal?" They turn to the silver-haired man standing closest to them, who smiles and nods.

"Right you are, Captain. I'm Colonel Hannibal Smith, and you must be Shannon." He extends a hand to the brunette, who releases Murdock long enough to shake it generously and resists the urge to tell him that she knows very well who he is, because Murdock constantly talks about in near-reverent tones; after all, who else could posses such a distinctive, commanding presence and the scent of delicious Cuban Cigars? The blonde in the corner takes this as his cue to introduce himself.

"I'm Face." The conman announces; Shannon simply beams at him, "And, um, about your, uh, plant…." He gestures to the sad pile of dirt.

"It's ok. Stupid thing died on me anyways." She rolls her eyes, like it's the plants fault it didn't get enough water and turns to B.A. expectantly.

"I'm Sergeant Baracus, but you can call me B.A." He says; somehow, her grin grows wider, until it rivals that of the pilot's.

"And I," Murdock declares with a flourishing bow and a pompously British accent, "Am Captain James Murdock the third of Her Majesty's Royal Air Force." Shannon laughs and gives an unbalanced curtsy, coming up with a regal "_so_ good to meet you, sir." even though she looks anything but regal in her oversized SpongeBob t-shirt and paint covered flannel pajama bottoms; she throws her arms around him a second time with a murmured "I love you" and savors the moment when he says it back in that happy-go-lucky voice of his.

Then, she spins around, hand grasping Murdock's, and drags him to the kitchen.

"So, who's hungry?"

Turns out, they're really, _really_ hungry, and by the time Shannon has sacrificed her freezer full of T.V. dinners, scrubbed clean enough forks for them all—most of the dishes are scattered around the house—hunted down an elusive sleeping bag, put fresh sheets on the spare mattresses in the guest/laundry room and wrote _'buy milk' _in capital letters on her to-do list, Hannibal has given her the very basics of their story.

"…and while we _were_ wrongly convicted, it's still illegal to break out of jail, and we need a place to stay until I can figure out a plan..."

"So basically, you wanna stay here, amiright?" at the Colonels uncomfortable nod she narrows her eyes, "Isn't aiding and abetting federal fugitives breaking the law?"

"Yes…" Hannibal's gravelly voice clearly portrays his doubts about the whole situation, but Shannon merely gives an insane little giggle.

"You can stay!" She replies with a little too much enthusiasm, practically bouncing on her ties with excitement; she gets to break the law _and_ spend time with Murdock all at once! "Boy, this is gonna be fun!"

Later, she enters the guest room, a basket full of Murdock's old clothes in tow; Face has already passed out on the sleeping bag—Shannon has to fight the itch to get a sharpie, because the poor man has already been through enough, and yes, it would be hilarious if he woke up with a monocle, but she_ will not give in damn it!_—and B.A. is sitting on the mattress closest to the window, taking off his boots.

"Hell_oo." _She sings happily as she sets the basket onto the washer, "I brought these for ya'll, in case you want some fresh clothes. Where's Hannibal?"

"He went to stash the van; we're gonna dump it tomorrow." He replies, shoulders stiff with tension; Shannon rubs her hands together gleefully.

"And so, the adventure begins at the break of dawn." She mutters.

"What?" B.A. asks, startled at her Murdock-like statement.

"Nothing." The answer is a little too quick, a slightly scary, maniac smile forming on her face, "Remember, the bathroom is at the very end of the hall, and if you need anything, wake someone else up, because I'm a little testy when my slumber is disturbed, as you saw." She gives a tiny wave and proceeds out the door and down the hallway to the kitchen, where Murdock is trying to coax Billy into eating some leftover meatloaf, which he is quite clearly refusing; at the sound of her approach he looks at her despondently. She grins and climbs onto the counter next to the fridge, finds a rather dusty can of dog food on the top shelf of the cabinet, and tosses it down.

"There you go, sweetheart." She croons to the dog as Murdock opens the can and pours it onto a dirty plate he found under the couch; she hops down, "Enjoy."

She strolls over to the pilot and gives him a quick peck on the lips; he grabs her and deepens the kiss, making her head spin in that familiar drunken way, like he's always been able to do.

They pull apart and she lays her head on his shoulder.

"Sorry I threw a glass at you." She whispers; he snorts.

"It's not me you should be apologizin' to." He replies solemnly, "Sheldon's the one that got hit." She gasps and lightly slaps him, "What?"

"Murdock, that's not Sheldon!"

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that that's Marcus Sr; Sheldon is right next to him!"

"Oh." He looks over his shoulder at the wall, "Do you think they heard me?" And with that both dissolve into unmanageable laughter; when Hannibal enters the door three minutes later, he finds them engaged in a tickle war on the kitchen floor.

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><p><strong><span>And there you have it :) see you soon!<span>**


	4. Nine Years and Three Months ago

**Hi again! :D boy, am I excited to see YOU!**

**Just so ya know, there is a bit of cussing in here and if you recognize anything, ANYTHING, _at all_, it's not mine.**

**dramagoddess202: I know! Isn't it wonderful? When I first met her (she spent ten minutes talking about silky string and alliteration) the only thing I could think was "Wow! She should really meet Murdock, they would get along great!"**

**Hoodoo: You know, it's funny you should mention that, because I was thinking the exact same thing...**

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><p><em>Nine Years and Three Months Ago<em>

Lily Craigs—also known as "Glenda the Good" among the residents of the ward—is a woman who loves her job with a passion; despite her bulldog-like appearance, she possesses an aura of compassion, one so strong that the residents automatically trust her. Milfred not taking his medicine again? Call Linda—she'll talk those pills down his throat in a heartbeat. Is that Murdock singing _Defying Gravity_ as he jumps from chair to chair in the rec room? Get Linda to convince him that his ability to 'fly' is making the other residents jealous. The woman has the uncanny ability to understand each occupant—what calms them down, what gives them nightmares, what makes them tick—so when someone tells her that their favorite pilot simply _won't_ get out of bed and could she please come help? she knows something is wrong, because that man cannot _wait_ to wake up every morning.

And when she pulls back the covers to revel a mound of Murdock-shaped pillows, she takes a moment to wonder why she's at all surprised before turning to the nurse behind her and asking him to sound the alarm as she thinks to herself: _he can't have gotten _that_ far—after all, he's on foot and in ward issued pajamas. _

It's not until three hours later that they discover half a dozen bottles of Clorazepate missing from the pharmacy and when night watch takes over a certain staff member—nicknamed "the Gorilla" by none other than Mr. Murdock himself—finds his clothes and wallet mysteriously absent from his locker in the staff room.

(^.^)

At the moment the alarm goes off at Fairmont Hospital, a man in clothes two sizes too big for him boards a bus with a lively spring in his step, whistling happily and chatting away to an imaginary person named "Billy", with whom he keeps up a steady string of conversation during the four hour trip to Milroy, Pennsylvania.

(^.^)

Roy Miller places the stubborn pickle jar between his legs, biting his lower lip in frustration as he uses his one arm to unsuccessfully twist open the lid; _fucking mother of pearl _it was hard enough to open shit like this when he had two arms, but now it's damn near impossible. Just as he's about to give up and resign himself to an abomination of a sandwhich the door bell rings, it's annoyingly cheerful chime making his headache even worse.

_'Good.' _He thinks bitterly, _'Someone to open this fucking jar.' _

However, when he answers the door, the most unexpected person greets him, a worried smile on his lips and a strange light—one that hadn't been there three years ago—in his eyes.

"C-_Captain_?" Roy stutters, mouth falling open at the sight of his former team member; Murdock's smile turns into a beam at being remembered.

"Howdy-do, Corporal." The man actually bounces—_bounces_—on his toes, the worry in his face quickly replaced with barely concealed excitement.

"I thought…I mean, Phil said you…"

"Went completely and utterly bat-shit, psychologist-certified insane?" At Roy's numb nod the pilot chuckles, "That Phil always was a gossip. But everything he said turned out to be true." He adds, with a knowing smile; the amputee struggles to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

"So…you were actually…um…" he gulps nervously and almost whispers the next word, "Committed?" Murdock nods readily.

"Yup. First in a neat little joint in Texas, then in this cozy place in West Virginia." It suddenly occurs to Roy that they're having this conversation on his doorstep, in 65 degree weather, the extremely angry clouds above them promising rain.

"Well, here, come on in." He ushers his guest inside and leads him to the kitchen, "You want something to drink? Coffee, water? I think I've got some beer…"

"Naw, I'm good." Murdock replies as he sits at the expensive-looking table; Roy opens the fridge and pulls out a brown bottle.

"Well, hope you don't mind me having one." At Murdock's nod, he throws back his head and takes a swallow; God, the alcohol feels good going down his throat.

"So, how've you been?" the Captain asks as Roy sits down, "Last time I saw you, you were bein' loaded into that chopper, pale as a ghost." The corporal suppresses a shudder at the memory and takes another gulp of the cold beer.

"I'm doing fine." He replies, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Me 'n my brother own a string of houses down in Reedsville that we've converted into apartments, so things have worked out for me." He takes another sip, "How 'bout you?" he realizes his mistake one second too late and mentally kicks himself for it; the man's spent the last few years being shipped from one psych ward to the next and he's sitting here asking him how he's been; Murdock, though, takes it in stride.

"Oh, I'm ok….actually, that's what I came here to talk to you about…" The pilot's happy demeanor vanishes as quickly as it came, that gnawing worry taking its place, "I'm, uh, in a little trouble…well, a lot of trouble, actually, and...I need…a place to stay…" Suddenly, he slings the blue back-pack off his shoulders onto his lap and starts rooting around in it, finally coming up with a few fifties, which he tosses on the table, "This is all the money I have and I know it's not a lot, but…"

Roy simply stares at the crumpled bills, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully; this is the bravest, most daring man he's ever met-hell, without him he would've come home as a corpse wrapped in an American flag, instead of a very much alive one-armed gimp.

He owes this man. Big-time. And now he has a way of paying off that debt.

Exhaling slowly, he pushes the money back to a wide-eyed Murdock.

"I've got an apartment that's just been vacated." Roy says with a small smile, "It's not much, but you can stay there as long as you like. I could also help you out as far as food goes, if you need it." He has a nagging feeling that the pilot isn't telling him the full truth, but he's pleasantly surprised to find that the bond of trust they shared back in the army hasn't been broken, at least for him.

"Roy…I don't know how I can…" The corporal holds up a hand, efficiently silencing his friend.

"You saved my life, sir." He replies softly; Murdock is speechless as Roy stands up and opens a kitchen drawer, pulling out a ring of keys, "C'mon, I'll show you the place."

(^.^)

Murdock stands in the apartment and waits for the door to slam, announcing Roy's departure, before letting out a shrill whoop of jubilation as he spins around in a circle, the Wal-Mart bags full of the new clothes on his arms making a delightful crinkling sound.

"Gee, Billy, I forgot how hard it was to be sane!" He tells the dog, giggling like a child on Christmas; Billy is already across the room, checking out the cool new smells. Murdock joins him, opening and closing doors with exclamations like "Ooooohh, a spider! What shall we name him, my faithful steed?" and "How much you wanna bet this one leads to Narnia?"

The apartment is a simple one; a bedroom, a bathroom and a living room with a tiny sliver of a kitchen at the end, all furnished with the absolute basics—a bed, a small T.V., a couch and a few dishes in the cabinets—but the pilot couldn't be happier; he spends the next few hours putting away the groceries that Roy bought him, rescuing and naming various insects and making a suitable bed for Billy next to his, which is now adorned with fresh, new sheets and a small, but workable blanket.

Bythe time he's done its nine o'clock; he stands on the worn, tired-looking couch, hands on his hips as he surveys his new domain.

Surveying, however, only takes about seven seconds, which is enough time for him to become conscious of the chilling voice of destiny calling his name, beckoning him and Billy to the great, wild yonder that lies beyond his front door.

"C'mon boy!" He exclaims, the voice coming out of his mouth resembling that of a certain pirate captain's, "Adventure awaits!" He jumps off the couch and bounds outside, just barely remembering to close the door.

(^.^)

Shannon hums a little Irish ditty to herself as she skips down the aisles of Gaby's Groceries, her extremely good mood apparent to everyone that spots her; she had spent the last eight hours happily cooped up in her art room, painting anything and everything that came to mind, and she fully intends to go back to her place and continue that wonderful activity for the _next_ eight hours, right after she stocks up on caffeine and sugar.

She's just completed her little shopping spree—two extra large bottles of coke are blissfully rolling around the bottom of her shopping cart, along with a package of triple-chocolate chip cookies and a dozen pink and purple pens, because she likes the alliteration-and she heads to check out, stopping in her tracks when she pulls up next to the candy aisle.

She looks at the cookies already lying in her cart, then at the delicious row of M&M's and various Hershey bars. She shouldn't, she knows she shouldn't; the practical voice in her head is screaming at her to walk away, or better yet pick up a bag of apples; it even goes so far as to remind her of the size-twelve holey jeans currently hugging her butt.

Instantly, Shannon's good mood dissipates; with a scowl, she marches over to the candy bars, scoops a half a dozen into her cart, tosses in a bag of gummy worms for good measure, and tells the voice, in no uncertain terms, to _go fuck itself_.

A hint of thunder still left on her face, she gets in line behind a man with particularly disheveled hair and contemplates the bottle of whiskey sitting on the shelf behind her.

By the time the old lady at the front of the line has paid for her precious vegetables—_"Health nut"_ Shannon whispers venomously—her gaze has wondered to the cute stranger before her. Besides his adorably messy brown hair, he has the deepest, wildest green eyes she's ever encountered, ones that posses a strange uncertainty to them, like he might bolt out the door in pursuit of a butterfly, or burst into a random song about Spain, or…why isn't he wearing any shoes?

She drags her eyes away from his socked feet and realizes that he's frantically patting down his pockets, mumbling something like "why didn't you remind me?" as the cashier—a bleached-blonde bimbo with a wad of gum in her mouth—rolls her eyes, clearly impatient. Shannon leans a little to the right, trying to get a look at what he's buying; an aviator's magazine, a can of dog food, and a box of crayons. She thoughtfully fiddles with the silver four leaf clover around her neck…aw, what the hell.

"Excuse me?" she says politely; the stranger spins around, turning the full force of his emerald gaze on her, stunning her momentarily, "Umm, d-did you, uh…"_ Ofh for Pete's sake, woman, get a hold of yourself! _"F-forget your money?" he nods uncomprehendingly, "Well, I can pay for your stuff, if you're ok with that." For some reason, this statement appears confuse him.

"You…you would _pay_ for me?" he asks, a hint of that familiar drawl in his voice, tilting his head in a manner she finds so adorable that she has to restrain her hand from reaching up and ruffling his hair further.

"Well, yeah…I mean, you don't have a lot of stuff and it's not every day a girl gets to help out a cute guy…"_Oh, God did she really just say that? _The cute guy in question simply stands there, seemingly speechless; Shannon decides to take matters into her own hands, and begins piling her stuff onto the conveyer belt, "I'm paying for him." She informs the cashier, who heaves a grateful sigh.

After everything's bagged and paid for, Shannon turns to the stranger, who is still speechless, and sticks out her hand.

"I'm Shannon, by the way." He hesitantly offers up his own as he regards her with what can only be described as amazement.

"M-Murdock." He replies as they clasp hands; she hopes her smile does not resemble that of a thirteen year old girl chatting up her crush.

"Murdock." She repeats, savoring the unique taste of it, as her smile turns into a full-blown grin, "Cool name."

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><p><strong>Talk about meet cute! *glances at clock* Wowza, how the holy string cheese did it get to be midnight?<strong>


	5. Stir Fry, with a little bit of Spanish

**Apologies for this being short and late, I've been sick the past couple of days :(**

**rubberduck2010: Me to! right after I finished writing that chapter, I felt the overwhelming urge to run down to the grocers so I could see if there were any shoeless pilots running around :)**

**dramagoddess:Your wish is my command, my Queen. *commences overly-dramatic bow***

**Hoodoo:*fangirlish squeal* THANK YOU!**

**P.S. Anyone who can spot the _Office _reference gets brownies!**

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><p>When Murdock first told B.A. about Shannon, the big man had thought that she was simply another one of the pilot's "friends"—like that damn dog—and even when he'd shown the team photographic proof that yes, she was real, and yes, that really was him in the picture, and <em>no,<em> he was not stalking her, B.A. still wasn't convinced, because who in their right mind would date such a crazy ass fool?

Now that he's actually met the woman, however, the answer is quite obvious: Shannon Jackson is most definitely _not_ in her right mind.

This fact is brought to light the morning after their arrival; B.A. is sitting at the wide counter top that separates the kitchen from the dining room, and also serves as a table, spine curved towards the blue mug in his hands—which may or may not be clean, but he doesn't really care, because it's been so long since he's had decent, non-prison coffee—when Shannon comes skipping—yes, _skipping_—into the kitchen and asks Murdock, who's at the stove, spatula in hand, for _stir fry_. Stir fry with _shrimp. _Not even some sort of insane, Murdock-concocted breakfast stir fry.

B.A. is so floored by the request that he nearly inhales the steaming liquid in his cup; in fact, some of it actually makes its way into his lungs, causing a coughing fit that has him doubled over on his stool. In a flash, the girl is at his side, pounding him on the back with her tiny fists; once he's able to breathe clearly, she stops and he offers up a slightly choked thank you.

"No prob." She replies, much too chipper for his liking; instead of prancing away, like he expects, she simply stands behind him, almost hovering. He's just about to ask her exactly _what _can he help her with when he feels something, a sort of softness running over his head, almost like he's being petted.

And then he realizes that he _is _being petted, by none other than Miss Crazy herself, who is, at this very moment, _feeling up his Mohawk. _

"I've heard so many things about this Mohawk." She says in awe; Hannibal chuckles into his mug as B.A. forces himself to concentrate on the fact that this woman is their host, and is being _extremely_ generous in taking them in, and the silver haired man sitting next to him would _not_ be pleased if he slapped her hand away from his head and accidentally broke her arm with the sheer force of his anger.

"_Shannon_!" Murdock hisses from across the kitchen, "The _Baracus Bosconius _is a very fearsome animal that does not appreciate being touched, especially when it's just woken up. _It may become violent_." Immediately, the petting stops; the woman's hand freezes on B.A.'s head, almost like she's paralyzed with fear.

"What should I do?" she whispers to the pilot, a strange sort of terror permeating her voice; B.A. groans, because it is _too damn early for this_.

"Slowly remove your hand." She raises the appendage, "Now, quietly, with no sudden movements, step away, slowly, slowly now, that's it."

"Wow, that was _close_." She says as Murdock puts a plate of steaming eggs in front of Hannibal, who accepts it with a laughing thank you.

Face stumbles in, his hair in disarray and deep shadows under his eyes; he sits down with a grateful sigh and mumbles something about coffee.

"Next to the microwave." Shannon replies, grabbing a suspicious looking cup and filling half of it with sugar as B.A. watches her curiously; she then skips past Face, who's blearily trying to locate the coffee maker, grabs the milk from the fridge and fills the rest of her mug.

Both the Corporal and the Colonel are watching her with open mouths; Murdock closes B.A.'s chin with one hand, holding his omelet wth the other, and tuts as he tries to grab it.

"Now Bosco, what do you say?" he asks, holding the plate out of reach.

"Chingar a su madre!" Shannon exclaims; Face snorts into his coffee as Murdock nods approvingly.

"That's right, Shannon, very good!" He sets the plate down, pats B.A. on the head and goes back to his place at the stove, "So, Facey, what're ya havin'?"

"Eggs." Comes the muttered reply.

"Green? With ham?" Face sighs again as B.A. rolls his eyes.

"No, just regular eggs." As the frying commences, Hannibal turns to Shannon, who is sitting Indian style on the counter top next to the fridge.

"So, Shannon, Murdock here tells me that you're in advertising." He says; the woman nods rapidly.

"Yup, I design things like logos and posters and book covers. And," she takes a sip of her milk and sugar, "I like to paint in my spare time. I put a couple of skyscrapers in the attic, so it makes for a really great art room."

"Oh, you're an artist?" Hannibal asks; _well that explains the crazy._ B.A. thinks as Murdock hands a full plate to Face.

"Shannon, what'd you say you wanted on that stir fry?" B.A. bites back another groan and hopes someone comes up with a plan to get them out of there.

(^.^)

Two days. They'd been there _two days_. Granted, Miss Crazy is gone from nine to five and spends at least an hour up in her attic, but that still leaves Murdock to contend with; that fool pilot is everywhere at once, doing laundry, taping up pictures from magazines, playing with his unlimited collections of puppets—B.A. has kept a close eye on the package of socks that Shannon got him when she bought the whole team new clothes—and all the while talking, _constantly_, to something, be it the wall, his dog, or an actual person.

Though, there are some moments where it's not too bad; this one, for example. B.A. is sitting on the couch next to Face, watching a show about doctors, while Murdock is peacefully napping on the floor, head in Shannon's lap, who is—_finally_—quiet, thanks to the newspaper in her hands.

B.A. can't help but cherish the calm moment.

When a strange noise—kind of like a sad _awwwww_—comes from the woman, B.A. fondly waves the moment goodbye as Face asks her what's wrong.

"There's this kid that's gone missing, a senator's kid." She shows them the article, "They think it might be this mobster who kidnapped him, but no one can get any evidence to prove it."

"Aw, that's too bad." Face replies; B.A. shakes his head—what sick basterd would mess with a _kid_?

"Yeah, it is." She jabs her finger into paper, "And listen to this: _'Many investigators on the case have voiced their frustration at the lack of hard evidence; one, Head Detective Bill Curry, is quoted saying "It's really no wonder why there's nothing to go on; this guy is top notch at what he does—he leaves no trails, has no mercy, and is completely capable of taking a little boy in order to prove a point. Unfortunately, at this moment, there's nothing the law can do.'" _Face jolts up from the couch like an electric shock just passed through his body.

"Read that part again." He demands; Shannon glances at him.

"What part?"

"That last sentence, read it!" He's standing now, almost hopping from one foot to the next in agitation.

"Um, _unfortunately, there's nothing the law can do_?"

"Yes, yes, _yes_!" He fistpumps the air, an ear to ear grin stretched on his face, "That's it, that's _it_, Shannon, you are a genius!" He bounds from the room, shouting at the top of his lungs, "Hannibal! Hannibal, I figured it out, I know what we're gonna do next!"

B.A. and Shannon look at each other blankly.

_Maybe the crazy is catching_. B.A. silently muses.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Chingar a su madre,<em> by the way, is Spanish for "F*** your mother"**

**And now you can press the reveiw button while thinking "I learned something new today!" ;)**


	6. Is that more Stir Fry?

**As per usual, I don't own anything recognizable, and Shanon has qiute the potty-mouth, so beware!**

**Hoodoo: *waves magic pen* There is now a quarry located half a mile from Sannon's house. Also, this story now takes place in Scranton ;) Oh, and here you go! *gives huge plate of assorted cookies* don't forget to save some for Creed and the people at his shelter! teehee :)**

**danang1970: That's good, cause if you'd said I wrote a character that was actually a Mary Sue I would've tossed myself off the the edge of the aforementioned quarry! And thank you for using the word "splendid" it made my day! :D **

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><p><em>Nine Years and Thre Months Ago, at the market<em>

_It's not every day a girl gets to help out a cute guy. _Her words render Murdock speechless—which is a very rare occurrence—and all he can do is stare as she starts loading her groceries onto the conveyer belt. She's a short woman, whose curves are hidden by the rattiest sweatshirt he's ever seen, and right now she's paying for his stuff—where did the crayons come from?—and holy crap she's looking at him and handing him his bag and smiling and talking and he realizes that he doesn't have any shoes on and…

Shannon? Wow, that's a pretty name, a cool name, and he has to do something right now or else she's going to think he's an idiot—_too late for that, moron, _Voice sneers, but he's good at ignoring it, so the words don't really register—and she's holding out her hand, so he grabs it, and _oh_ she's waiting for his _name_.

"M-Murdock." He stammers out; she grins and doesn't pull her hand away.

"Murdock." He doesn't know why, but a little shiver runs down his spine when she says it, which is ridicules because he just met her.

Wait, did she just say _cool name_? _What's wrong, Murdock, having trouble focusing? _Voice snickers, _Better run on home and take your meds. Don't bother with her, 's not like she'd stick around for long, you'd annoy her too much. _Her hand is really soft—is that blue paint on her cheek?—and wow, things are gettin' real loud up in here, and he can hear everything, from the pregnant lady breathing as she hurries past them to the squeaky wheel on someone's cart and if he doesn't say something really soon the noise is going to dig a lake and drown him in it, sew a pillow and use it to smother him, so…

"Why'd you pay for me?" Granted, he kind of yells it, but it's better than nothing, and she's smiling anyways, so it's ok.

"Well, I believe in the saying 'what goes around, comes around', andyou have really nice eyes..." Her voice trails off and he can feel his mouth stretching into a grin at the words _nice eyes _because usually people can't even look him in the eye—that strange shine in them that says _teehee, I'm insane, so you really should steer clear of this one, pal_ tends to make others a wee bit uncomfortable—and he's never had someone tell him that he has nice eyes, much less _really _nice eyes, so he just laughs a little and asks, "Really?" which is quite silly, when you think about it, because she _just said…_

Oh, wait, she's laughing too, he must've done something right.

"Yeah, and I noticed your magazine, and I think planes are pretty bad ass, so I figured we'd have something to talk about on our first date." Her mouth snaps shut and her cheeks turn a really bright crimson, like she can't believe what she just said, and if there had been liquid in his mouth, it would've been all over the floor at this point, because _is she asking him out? _It sounds a lot like she's asking him out, but he may be wrong, because he's not exactly experienced in this department…

"Are you asking me out?" Again, the words come out a little louder than he intended, but she's still blushing and now she's nodding this shy, slow nod and a line of sweat breaks out on his forehead because she's saying yes, and she's still holding his hand—or is _he_ holding _her_ hand?—and she's really pretty, despite the rats-nest of a ponytail on her head…

"I know, real subtle, right?" she sighs and is that a southern drawl he detects? "So, um…" she bites her lower lip, and he's trying really hard not to wander, because it seems like she's trying to say something, but can't get the words out, so he prompts her with a little "Yes?" and she smiles and says: "How 'bout I give you my number?" Is he nodding too eagerly? He hopes he's not, but either way she laughs and uses the hand that's not holding his to dig around in her bag and pull out a pen.

"Call anytime." She scribbles the number onto his palm, beams at him when he replies "Ok." and gives a litle wave before turning and walking out the large double doors with a skip in her step.

He turns to Billy, who's been standing next to him this entire time, tongue lolling and tail wagging away.

"Did that just happen?" he asks; the dog nods happily, "Well, in that case, we need to get to a phone."

(^.^)

Phone, phone, phone, where are you, phone? He's scoured the entire apartment, top to bottom, even checked behind the toilet—because you never know what you might find there—and still nothing. He plops down on the kitchen floor, legs crossed, chin in hand.

"Oh, if I was a phone, a jolly good phone, where, oh, where would I be-ee?" he sings to himself, suddenly jumping to his feet, "Here, phoney, phoney, phoney!" he calls, "I gotta lil snack for ya if you come out!" He hops on the counter, cupping his hands around his mouth, "Come here, phone, I got some phone food!"

And then he remembers; Roy had said the apartment doesn't have a phone.

(^.^)

Shannon hunkers down over her desk, nose almost touching the paper in front of her, as her pencil flutters across it, creating delicate lines and deep shadows; the drone of the office—the ringing phones, bored small talk, and quiet laughter of the local gossips—had all faded away a while ago, leaving nothing but her and…a picture of Murdock?

With an irritated growl she crumples up the paper and tosses it in the general direction of the trashcan sitting in the corner of her cubicle. Why is this so hard? It's just another logo, just another "subtle, but eye-catching, nothing to flashy, do you understand, dear?" design, one that she's done a million times, so why isn't this one coming to her as easily as the others?

She leans back in her chair and digs the heels of her palms into her eyes until she sees stars; it's been five days and she barely said twenty words to him, so she really shouldn't even be worrying about this, because she is awesome_, totally frickin' awesome_, and it's his loss and she doesn't need a man anyways and that's it, that's the last thought she's going to waste on that basterd.

…_Damn it all_, was it the sweatshirt? The hair? Did she come across as desperate? Or was the lack of make-up a turn off for him? She lets out a tortured groan and grabs her purse, heads for her boss's office.

"Hey, Johnny, I'm gonna take an early lunch, kay?" she's out the door before he can nod his confirmation; the damn elevator is running too slow, so she takes the stairs, jumping down them two at a time, and heads out into the chilly April air.

If there's one person who can help her out, it's Auntie J.

(^.^)

She enters the doors of Wellsprings Nursing Home with a grateful sigh—the place is always so _warm_—and moves toward the front desk.

"Mornin' Shirley." She says to the pretty receptionist, who nods in return.

"Good morning, Shannon." She has the visitors pass drawn up in a heartbeat, handing it over with her customary condescending smile, "She's in the rec center."

"Thanks." Shannon clips the badge on as she walks down the painfully familiar hallway and turns into the room labeled _recreation_, where most of the residents are clustered around the small T.V. in the corner; she approaches the nurse on duty, a heavy African-American woman with deep smile lines on her face and an earthy aura about her.

"Hey, Rose." The big woman turns to her, smiling that heartwarming smile.

"Hello, dearie. June's over there." She waves a hand to the corner, where Shannon's aunt is sitting in a rocking chair, demurely knitting a brightly colored scarf.

"Oh, she looks good." Shannon notes, "So, what year is it today?"

"Well, for most of the week, it's been '96, '97. Today, I think, is '94—she keeps making _Forrest Gump_ references." Shannon heaves a sigh.

_Great, I'm fifteen again. Abso-fricken'-lutely wonderful. _

She thanks Rose and walks over to her aunt, who looks up and beams at her approach.

"Hey, pinky." Shannon winces at the old nickname—she thanks her lucky stars that she's no longer that God awful complexion—and sits down on the stool her aunt drags over.

"Hiya, Auntie J."

"So, how was school today?" The brunette forces up a smile.

"Oh, you know, just school." She shrugs, "Same old, same old." Her aunt immediately picks up on the dismissive gesture; the needles freeze in her hands as she stares at the younger girl over her glasses.

"Something botherin' you, honey?" At Shannon's slow nod she stops rocking, "What is it? Schoolwork? No? A boy, then?" Shannon nods again; Auntie J flings her knitting to the floor and leans forward putting her elbows on her knees, a scarily fanatic gleam in her gray eyes, "Ooo, tell me, tell me, tell me! Is he cute? Where'd you meet him? Oh, please say it's not that Mathews basterd that broke your heart at Christmas!" Shannon laughs, a delighted sound that always comes out of her whenever she's around this woman.

"No, no, it's not Jimmy." She assures her aunt, "It's a new guy. Murdock." And with that, she spills everything, from the way he stood, hopping from one foot to the other—like he couldn't stomach the thought of standing still—to how utterly helpless he looked standing at that register, unable to pay.

"And now, he hasn't called, and I can't get him out of my head." She finishes, looking at Auntie J hopefully; the woman rubs her hands together thoughtfully.

"What were you wearing?" Shannon moans at the memory. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"Make-up?"

"None."

"Hair?"

"You don't wanna know." She sits back and ponders this for a moment.

"Well, at least you know why he hasn't called." Shannon playfully slaps at her arm; Auntie J ducks away just in time, laughing gleefully.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" Shannon says, a hint of amusmant in her voice, "What I need to know is how to forget him. What would you do?"

"Me?" her aunt thinks for a minute, "Well, I'd start out by dressing up like a prostitute, then I'd go out to the nearest bar and get rip-roarin' drunk and do my damndest to get laid." At Shannon's scandalized giggle she wags her finger, "Now, don't go gettin' any ideas, missy. You're too young for those kinda shenanigans. Save that for when you turn eighteen."

(^.^)

Murdock is sitting on the bench outside Gaby's Groceries, waiting for her. _Wow, stalking much? _He shivers and stuffs his hands under his arms as Billy lays his head on his lap. _C'mon, you've been at this for hours, obviously she's not coming. _He shakes his head resolutely.

"She has to get groceries eventually." He whispers to his dog, who closes his eyes sleepily. He wonders why the sign is painted brown, _maybe the owner likes brown, _and not another, prettier color, like blue, or red, like the shirt of the last lady who walked out of the store…

…which had been a while ago. Come to think of it, no one had been in or out of the store in quite some time, not since the man with the keys came and locked the front door…

Oh.

Ah, well. He pushes Billy off of his lap, gets up and stretches, reassuring his dog—and himself—that there's always tomorrow, and she can't go forever without stopping—or, at least walking—by.

He strolls down the sidewalk, singing as he cranes his head to count the stars.

"Come on baby, take a ride with me, I'm up from Indiana down to Tennessee—forty three, forty four—everything's as cool as can be—fifty seven—in a peaceful…whoops, missed some!" He backpedals swiftly, still singing, "In a peaceful world!...how did the rest of that go?"

Now, he isn't exactly paying attention, and whoever stumbles out of the bar and into his back clearly isn't paying attention either, so as he turns around and catches the lady who ran into him, he decides not to be mad, because it's really no one's fault…

…and when he sees the face of one very inebriated Shannon—aka, Supermarket Savior, even though Gaby's Groceries doesn't really count as a supermarket—he realizes that he couldn't be mad, not to save his life, because the grin currently occupying his face simply can_not_ be turned off, even when she recognizes him, stares open-mouthed at him for a moment and then starts beating him over the head with her purse.

"Why. Didn't. You. Call." Each word is punctuated by a blow to the skull, and Murdock has to grab her wrists and hold her at arm's length—which isn't very hard, given the state that she's in—to get her to stop. She freezes and her eyes—why does she have so much make-up on?—narrow dangerously. "Why are you _laughing_?" the word is spat out like a curse and he tries, really tries, to stop, but he can't help it, because she looks like a clown minus the scary fake smile and because he's been looking _all over_ for her, and now here she is, literally falling into his arms at 1:30 in the morning and…

Oh, dear, she's puking.

(^.^)

He has to half drag her back to his apartment—she won't tell him where she lives, only saying something about how she couldn't sleep after reading_ Children of the Corn—_and when they're finally inside she collapses in a heap.

"At least I don't look like a, like a, like a total shlob this time." She giggles—Murdock can't help but notice she's right; the tank top she has on only has a few paint stains and her jeans don't have any holes in them at all—and she holds out a hand, "Come on in, the floor's lovely."

He grins and lays down next to her; she immediately puts her head on his stomach, because "Your floor hurts" and starts wailing. At first, he's alarmed—and a tiny bit frightened, because it sounds like she's got a Voice in her head that she's trying to drown out—until he realizes she's trying to sing.

"People know this world is a wreck, we're sick and tired of being politically correct!"

"That's how it goes!" Murdock exclaims happily; Shannon giggles again.

"Of course that's how it goes, silly!" She launches into the next line, "The hypocrites made it worse and worse, lookin' down their noses at what people say…" He starts laughing, because it's just so _awful_, and she tries—and fails—to slap him. "No interrupting!" But she's laughing to, and it's amazing, because he can't hear Voice, and it feels like his mind belongs to him and him alone—and he knows that's not true, but golly-gee it's so nice to pretend!—and when she goes straight to the chorus, he sings along, and they sound like a half a dozen cats being brutally slaughtered, but he doesn't care.

"Come on baby take a ride with me, I'm up from Indiana down to Tennessee, everything is cool as can be, in a peaceful world!"

(^.^)

Shannon rolls over in order to shield her eyes from the _way too goddamn bright_ morning sun and blearily wonders why the hell she left the curtains open last night and what is up with her head? It feels like someone cracked it open with a rusty shovel…

Oh.

Oh, _crap_.

She shoots out of the bed—the bed that is most certainly _not_ _hers_—and sways, not so much sitting back down as crumbling into a pile of pain. She clutches her head and moans—_curse you, Jim Beam!—_thanking the sweet baby Jesus and his mother that her clothes are still firmly on her body.

When she can move again, she slowly walks out of the room, trying to come up with a good way to apologize to the man who's been occupying her thoughts for the past week—_yes, practical side, I do know how pathetic that sounds—_only to nearly run into Murdock himself.

She comes face-to-face with the happiest grin she has ever seen anyone wear and takes a step back, mouth open to explain that last night was a fluke and that she _never_ drinks that much…well, not on a regular basis anyways—_Oh, shut up, technically it's not lying—_but when he raises his hands to reveal a bottle of aspirin and a glass of orange juice, all coherent thought goes out the window.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" She wasn't aware she could move so fast with a hangover, but suddenly there's orange juice in her mouth and three pills making their way down her throat and before she's done swallowing she takes another swig of that yummy liquid—nothing's ever tasted so good—and looks at her rescuer with wide eyes.

"Thank you." She says again, "For last night and everything, I mean. And I'm so sorry about…" he holds up a hand and beams at her.

"Do you like stir fry?" _Well, that's a curious question._

"Um, yeah, I love stir fry." She replies hesitantly, "Why?"

"'Cause that's what's for breakfast!" He spins on his heel and makes a beeline for the stove—she notices the make-shift apron around his waist is actually a blue hoodie—and she follows him curiously.

"Stir fry for breakfast?" she asks, peering over his shoulder and into the wok, where a great quantity of assorted vegetables covered in thick brown sauce lay simmering, "Is that shrimp?" she adds excitedly.

"Yes, and yes." He spoons some out on a plate, giving an insane little chuckle, "That's how we do things here in House du Murdock; dinner for breakfast, breakfast for lunch and desert for dinner. I don't have a phone." That stops her as he hands over the steaming pile of food.

"What?"

"You were asking why I didn't call you. Last night. I don't have a phone." He fixes some for himself and sits on the counter top next to the stove, patting the spot next to him.

"Really? That's it?" she asks as she takes the seat he indicated, putting a forkful of snow peas and shrimp in her mouth, "Oh, wow, this is awesome!"

"Thank you. And yeah, that's the reason." He starts swinging his legs, his socked feet making a soft _thump_ every time they connect with the cabinet, barely touching the food in his lap; Shannon, on the other hand, is digging in with relish, pausing only to wipe her streaming eyes—it's so deliciously _spicy—_until a fantastic thought comes barging into her brain.

"Do you like cookies?" she asks around a mouthful of shrimp; Murdock's head snaps up—he's got that wonderful, unpredictable look in his eye again—and nods rapidly, "Well, I was thinkin'…see, there's this cute little coffee shop on Main Street and the man who owns it makes the most amazing cookies and I was wondering…" she suddenly becomes preoccupied with the leftover food on her plate, "…well, do you wanna go there with me? After you're done eating, obviously…it'd be my treat, since I did puke in your bathroom and all…" she inwardly cringes at how stupid she sounds—not only that, but she looks like crap and smells like whiskey—so when he doesn't answer, she prepares herself for the worst and risks a peek at him.

Surprisingly, he's staring at her with this overjoyed grin on his lips.

"Desert after breakfast, boyo?" he asks in a very well-done Scottish accent—if she didn't know any better she'd expect him to start prancing around in a kilt, with bagpipes clutched to his chest—and taps his forehead with his finger, saying, in his regular voice, "I like the way you think, Miss Shannon."

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><p><strong><span>Coooookkiieess...mmmm...<span>**

**By the way, the song mentioned is _Peaceful World _by John Mellencamp (Is there a Couger in there somewhere?)**


	7. Breathing

**Hello, you wonderful human being, you! :D**

**Now, I've tried talking to Shannon about the swearing, but she didn't take it very well, so be prepared!**

**dramagoddess: Thanks! And, yeah, everything turned out a-okay for Shannon and our favorite pilot!**

**danang1979: Totally true! Only Murdock is crazy enough to put up with a drunk Shannon and still love her!**

**Hoodoo: Awwww, Thank you! and don't worry, the Creed qoute will be in the next chapter ;)**

**MadTeaLady: Thanks, I'm glad you like it! (Actually the word glad doesn't even begin to cover how happy I am that you enjoy this story, but in order to properly describe my jubulation we'd need a _whole lot more time, _and since I assume you want ti read this chapter sometime today, I'll stop rambling) :D**

**And now, I give you Crazy Fools...Chapter Seven!**

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><p>Shannon stands in front of her easel, paintbrush in hand, as she admires the way the evening sun streams through the skylight to wash the disaster-zone of a room in a pool of gold. She dips the brush into the well of pitch-black paint, then puts it to the blank canvas and draws a line, then another, then…<p>

That's it. She can't paint another thing. The image is gone, though the driving force behind her need to create is still there; the knowledge that the four of them are still cooped up in her guest room, planning who-knows-what, makes her so scared that she wants to lock herself in this moment and never leave, because right now, at this very second, he is alive and safe and it's all she can do not to crawl downstairs and beg him not to disappear again.

She slumps to the floor, clutching the paintbrush like it's the only thing in the world that's keeping him here, and breathes—in through the nose, out through the mouth—because she knows this feeling, knows it like she knows one of her paintings; she felt like this when he used to leave her for his team, for that distant place of sand and blood, and the only way she can get through it is to keep breathing and forget.

Inhale—she draws her knees up to her chest—exhale—she buries her face in her arms—inhale…

_What are they planning?_ She gnashes her teeth together and jumps to her feet, pacing the edge of the room with heavy, anguished steps. What could _possibly_ be taking so long? They've been in there for over six hours, ever since Hannibal got back from his two-day trip to confirm that Face is indeed a genius, they are now a band of mercenaries, and that the senator had hired them to track down his kid, thereby giving them their first job.

At those last three words, Face had tossed back his head and laughed, B.A.'s eyes had lit up like a kid that was just told that he can have that T.V. he'd been begging for, and Murdock had grabbed her hands and spun her around the living room while singing _Greensleeves. _The only one who had not been happy was Shannon, who'd had a gut-wrenching feeling that this particular job meant bullets, blood, and a rather large chance of death.

Now, she jumps up and bounds down the stairs, grabbing her phone from the couch and hurriedly dialing that familiar number.

"Hello, Ming's Chinese Diner and Buffet, how can I help you?" Shannon grins; this should get them out.

(^.^)

The four men dig into the takeout like it's their last meal—_damnit, Shannon, stop thinking like that!—_but the brunette is simply moving the moo-shoo pork around her plate with her fork; she realized shortly after she sat down with her food and heard the team reminiscing about missions past—Face was recalling, in great detail, how Murdock had flown through a sandstorm with a bullet wound to pick them up after a job gone wrong—that she doesn't have much of an appetite.

When Murdock nudges her with his elbow, she jolts, looking up from her plate and meeting Hannibal's eyes; it becomes clear that he's talking to her—or at least trying to—and if Murdock's pointy joint in her side is anything to go by, what he has to say is important.

"Sorry, what?" she asks, putting her fork down in an effort to keep still; Hannibal, graceful as always, simply smiles.

"I said, after this job we'll be able to pay you back for your generosity."

"Oh. That's cool." Her foot restlessly bounces, her fingers tapping on the countertop of their own accord; if she wasn't so anxious, she might've rejoiced in the fact that her fairly depleted bank account will be renewed soon….how soon, though? "So…um…w-when are you guys leaving?"

"Tomorrow." Face answers, "Hey B.A., could you pass…" A loud clanging sound interrupts him; their heads snap to where Shannon is sitting—except she isn't sitting anymore, she's crouched on her hands and knees on the floor, picking up the shattered remains of the plate that had gotten knocked over during her mini panic attack—and she can't breathe right because it feels like something's punching her heart, making it beat way too fast, and _ow_, the plate shards are sharp and she barely hears B.A. asking "You alright, Miss Crazy?" and _God_ it's as if someone's digging out her lower intestine with a dull spoon because she doesn't want any of them to go, not Hannibal with his quiet smiles or Face and his boyish, carefree charm or B.A. and the way he'll threaten to skin Murdock alive if he so much as looks at the big man's socks and Murdock…

…who is suddenly kneeling in front of her, gently grabbing her bleeding hands and leading her to the sink.

"Shannon." He whispers as he turns on the water and puts her hand under it—the way he says her name makes her want to cry—"Are you ok?" And those words bring her back to the kitchen, where three other pairs of alarmed eyes are staring at her, so she paints on a smile and _pulls herself together, because she is not one of those annoyingly fragile girls who break down whenever her boyfriend has to go away, damnit! _and nods.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Her hands are still trembling, though, as she pulls herself out of Murdock's grasp and grabs a couple of paper towels from the rack, pressing them against her cut—it's not too bad, just a little scratch on her palm—and turns her blindingly bright smile to the others, "I'm totally fine. Nothing to worry about." She pushes away the terrifying image of bullets flying past their heads and, when she sees the doubt on Hannibal's lined face, rushes to reassure him, "Really, I'm completely fine. Can even say it in a different language, estoy bien, see? Sto bene, mimi faini," She's talking to fast and too loud—a habit she picked up from Murdock over the years—but she can't stop herself, "Je vais bien, and…and deine mutter ist eine hure!" There is silence after this statement, followed by Murdock's hand on her shoulder.

"Shannon, you just called Hannibal's mother a whore." Her face goes a deep crimson and she looks at the Colonel with wide eyes.

"Oh, um…s-sorry, my, my German's not that good…" Hannibal simply waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.

"It's ok, you didn't mean it." He replies, understanding in his gravelly voice.

"Yeah, um…thanks…" she glares at the broken plate for a moment, trying desperately to hide the water in her eyes from the four most composed men she's ever met and when she feels a steady trickle down her cheek she rushes to the bathroom, shouting over her shoulder, "Où est la Joconde!"

Once she's gone, Face looks at Murdock curiously.

"What does finding the Mona Lisa have to do with anything?" he asks; the pilot's eyes seem fixed on the hallway that leads to the bathroom.

"Her French isn't too good either." He replies with unusual calm, before heading to the bathroom.

(^.^)

The door isn't locked—he knew it wouldn't be—so he simply walks in, taking in the scene—Shannon sitting on the edge of the bathtub, roll of toilet paper in hand as she hurriedly wipes her eyes—with a swift glance; he opens the door to the cabinet above the toilet and grabs a box of tissues from the top shelf.

"These are softer." He says, squatting in front of her and handing them over, "Nice work with the languages, by the way; you actually got most of them right." She smiles shakily.

"I had a good teacher." She blows her nose and he recalls the afternoons they spent together, him patiently teaching her useful phrases—such as _where's the bathroom? _and _how much for this hat?_ and _Thanks, but I don't eat stuff that's still alive_ and various swear words—and she trying them out, stumbling every few letters.

"Shannon, you're not fine." He says in all seriousness, _of course she's not fine, moron, she's sitting here bawling, because of you_ and he has to drag himself back from the Crazy Ledge—Shannon needs him—when she starts talking.

"I know, I know, I just…" She buries her face in a fistful of used tissues and moans, "God, this is so _stupid_, I mean I'm a soldier's girlfriend, I should be used to this, I _am_ used to this, it's just…"

"What? What's it just?" he asks, _geez, dimwit, give the girl some space—Shut up, Voice _he snarls, but Voice simply laughs at his anger_—_and she's talking again, so he has to focus on her.

"It's just that…what if you get caught?" she closes her eyes, inhaling sharply, as if just the thought of it hurts, "Or, what if one of the bad guys hurt you? What if you…" She's sobbing now, hysterically, "What if you don't come home, Murdock? What if you don't come back? In the army there was always choppers and medics and hospitals and…and…" He wraps his arms around her, holding her close, because that's what she always does for him when he's scared and it always helps, _see what you've done?_—_Voice, I swear, I'll…—you'll what? _

"James…" She sighs as she lays her head on his shoulder, the sobs still racking her body, but less so, now, "I don't think I'd…if something happened to you, I might…I don't know what I'd do…" he shushes her by laying his finger on her lips.

"Well, then," he replies brightly, "I guess I'll just have to make sure I don't die." She laughs—for real this time—and they stay there until the tears on her face and his shirt have dried.

(^.^)

_Keep breathing _she reminds herself as Face gives her a swift hug and a "Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll be back before you know it!" before he heads out the door to join B.A.—who looks a little sad to be leaving, despite his daily complaints of "those two crazy fools"—in their new van and she turns to Hannibal, who shakes her hand.

"We can't thank you enough for your hospitality." He says.

"Don't mention it." She replies, drawing a little closer, "Take care of him, kay?" they both glance at Murdock—who's currently shoving cans of dog food into a bag—and Hannibal nods.

"I will." She holds out her pinky, a playful light in her eyes.

"Pinky Promise?" He laughs and they intertwine fingers.

"Pinky Promise." They let go and he strolls out, lighting up a cigar on the way.

She breathes in and suddenly he's right there, enfolding her in his arms and planting his lips on hers; time freezes as she savors this moment, this deliciously sweet moment, and _breathe, Shannon, _and then it's over all too soon when he steps away and waves.

"May the force be with you, small one." He says in his best Obi-Wan voice; Shannon giggles and gives him a Vulcan Salute.

"Live long and prosper, my friend." They laugh together and then he blows her a kiss and is gone, the screen door slamming shut behind him.

She hears the van rev and goes to the window, watches it drive down the street, going further and further away, getting smaller, until it's just a tiny speck...

...and then it's gone.

"They'll be back." She assures the all-too empty house, "He promised he wouldn't disappear on me again, and he always keeps his promises. He'll be back."

* * *

><p><strong><span>Wow, I'm actaully updating during the day, for a change...<span>**

**Anyways, Sto bene, mimi faini, Je vais bien and estoy bien all mean "I'm fine" in Italian, Swahili, French and Spanish, respectively, deine mutter ist eine hure, is German for "Your mother's a whore" and Où est la Joconde means "Where's the Mona Lisa?"**

**Hope you enjoyed it!**


	8. Snapshots

**This next chapter is simply a collection of the important moments in Murdock's and Shannon's relationship, so sit tight and enjoy the show!**

**MadTeaLady: Unique? I don't think anyone has ever said that about my writing before...*sends virtual hug* thanks for making my cloudy day a gajillion times brighter!**

**Hoodoo: Hear, hear! *raises sho glass filled with chocolate milk***

**danang1970: Thanks, it's good to know that everyone's right in character where they should be :D And about that whole interdemsional fabric thingy... *terrifying shriek sounds outside* *draws lightsaber* hang on, I have to go fight of the plot bunnies gnawing at me door. **

**Astra68: THANK YOU SO MUCH ZOMGYOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY!**

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><p><em>Nine Years and Three Months ago<em>

Shannon has only known Murdock for a two days now, so she can't help but be surprised when he shows up at on her doorstep at seven on the Sunday morning after their second encounter, a bag of groceries in his arms; the second she opens the door, he starts talking—this is less of a shocker—about the cab service in Reedsville, and how he made a new friend whose name is Kevin, and Kevin seems like a very nice guy who doesn't mind shareing his gum, and would she like some breakfast?

She says yes, despite the ungodly hour—Murdock has the uncanny ability to wash away the tired like so much water—and is promptly introduced Colin, a cheerful sock puppet with a pair of bent, wire-rimmed glasses who is Murdock's new roommate.

It's the start of the most amazing friendship.

(^.^)

_ Nine Years and Two Months Ago_

Shannon and Murdock are sitting on a picnic table overlooking the quarry, their feet on the bench, with a loaf of freshly baked bread and half a gallon of chocolate milk sitting between them. She takes a swig of milk, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, as she stares at the man next to her—he's chatting away about the awesomeness of Bruce Willis and the _Die Hard_ series—but she's only half listening, because her attention is almost completely on his very kissable mouth and how much she wants to press her lips to his—she wonders if he'd taste like chocolate—when she becomes aware of the fact that he's stopped talking.

"Why are you staring at me?" he's regarding her with genuine curiosity, his head tilted to the side, and she suddenly realizes that there's absolutely no reason why she shouldn't kiss him, right here and now, so she locks away the trickling fear in her stomach in the _Do Not Open _box in the back of her mind and hops off the table. She takes a deep breath and places her hands on his knees, looking him straight in the eye—he still looks adorably confused—before she closes hers and leans forward, brushing her lips against his.

Granted, it's not much, but she's barely pulled away when his hands reach up to cradle her head, and he deepens the kiss in such a way that it makes her head spin like she's had too much to drink and her lungs are fighting for breath but she doesn't care because her heart's pounding in her ears and she's getting dizzy and yes, he does taste very much like chocolate.

(^.^)

_ Nine Years Ago_

Shannon yawns and stretches, the morning light barely peeking through the thick curtains on the windows—she hates it when her sleep is disturbed by the sun—and rolls over, laying a hand on the warm body next to her. She smiles sleepily and closes her eyes; this is the sixteenth morning in a row she's woken up with him in her bed, and she has to admit that she's becoming rather fond of it. She props herself up on her elbow when she hears his quiet sigh—the sign that he's awake—and plants a kiss on his cheek.

"Mornin' sleepin' beauty." She chirps; he opens one sleep filled eye.

"If I'm sleeping beauty, does that mean you're the prince?" he asks; she purses her lips in thought.

"Yup!" she replies, then laughs when his arms go around her, pulling her to him.

(^.^)

Later that day, he's making lunch—casserole, with a few curious ingredients—and she's sitting at the counter, sketching his likeness on a napkin, the tip of her tongue sticking out.

"Food's done!" He announces, brandishing a spatula, "Texas or Rhode Island?" she looks up and draws in a deep breath, smelling the air.

"Texas, please!" she takes another sniff, "Actually, make that a Mexico." He laughs, scooping the steaming food onto a plate.

"One Mexico serving, comin' up!" He sets the plate in front of her and she digs in—by the time Murdock sits down with his plate she's already halfway done—and he stares at her, a forkful of pasta hovering in front of his face.

"Are these gummy bears?" she asks, holding up a partially melted red blob; he nods ecstatically and she looks at him, eyebrows raised, "_Nice _touch!" She pops it in her mouth, then returns her full attention to the casserole.

"Hey, Shannon."

"Mmm-hmm?" _Man, this is amazing._

"I love you." Her fork makes an echoing clanging sound when it falls to the plate; she slowly swallows the food in her mouth, before gaping at him with wide, unbelieving eyes.

"W-what?"

"I said I lo…"

"I heard what you said, don't repeat it!" She slams her hands over her ears, because _holy shit, he doesn't know, she didn't tell him, _and he's looking at her with these hurt puppy eyes, so she rushes to explain, "Murdock, you don't…you shouldn't say that, you don't know everything…"_ How could she forget to tell him? _"I-I mean…you…there's something you should know, before you commit, because it's not fair for me to drag you into my mess and…"

"Shannon, Shannon, _Shannon!_" He grabs her hands, tries to catch her eye, because she can't look at him—_what will he do once he knows?—_"Shannon, whatever it is, you can tell me, because I do, I really love..."

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" She snatches her hands away, buries her face in them while she gets herself together—he doesn't say anything, doesn't move, because he knows her well enough to see that she needs this—before she jumps to her feet and grabs her keys.

"C'mon, there's someone you need to meet."

(^.^)

Silence has never been so heavy—the air inside the car feels like a wet blanket—and for the five minute drive she finds that she can't say anything, even though she wants to, and when they pull into the nursing home it takes an extra effort to let go of the wheel and open the door. _He's not going to leave because of this. _She assures herself as they climb the steps; _he's not like the other guys. He won't leave._

Shirley gives her pilot a once over as she takes a little too long with the visitor's passes, but Shannon can't find it in herself to care—_he's not like the others—_and suddenly, they're in front of her aunt, who's in her rocking chair and she's introducing them and they're sitting down and she does her best to ignore Murdock's confused glances as Auntie J pulls her forward.

"Honey," she whispers, looking over her glasses at the younger girl, "You know I'm all for boy toys, but don't you think you're a teensy bit too young for a boyfriend?" With a sinking feeling, Shannon gives a small, fake smile.

"No, I don't think so. And besides," she sits back in her chair and grabs Murdock's hand, "I'm old enough to make my own choices about boys." Auntie J chuckles.

"Ah, to be thirteen and so confidant." She says, turning her gaze to Murdock, "So, how did you two meet?"

"I told you, Auntie. At Gaby's." She kicks herself when June's eyes go blank and she remembers that she was fifteen that visit.

"Really? I don't remember…" Auntie J shakes her head, "Oh, well. I'm a forgetful person." She tells Murdock, "Runs in the family. So, is he the oe who got you that lovely necklace?" Shannon's hand flies to her throat, where her silver four leaf clover sits on her collarbone.

"No." She replies—_you got this for me the day I left for collage—_she smiles, "No, this is…just…something I picked up." _You said it would bring me luck, Auntie. I wish you could remember…_

(^.^)

After another half hour of talking—_that Auntie J is really a delightful woman—_they head to the car and Murdock, still not entirely sure what's going on, offers to drive, _you don't have a license, dummy_; Shannon simply nods, a distant look on her face, like she's reliving the past—he doesn't like it when she's so quiet—and when they're a few minutes down the road she finally starts talking.

"Alzheimer's. It's a bitch." She pauses and rubs her eyes wearily, "I was twelve when my mom got sick." She closes her eyes and Murdock turns to her, hoping to comfort, but _keep your eyes on the road, idiot, _and for once Voice has a point, so he focuses on the pavement instead. "At first it was just little things—she'd put a tiara in my lunch box instead of a sandwich, or forget doctor's appointments, things like that—but then she'd forget to make dinner, or would go for days without showering and she'd spend most nights wandering around, calling for her parents or her sister and since she didn't have a job 'cause we were living off of the money my grandparents left us, there was nobody but me to notice and, well…" She turns to look out the window.

…it was just me, so I took care of her." She pauses, biting her lower lip, "I didn't know what else to do, I was scared that they were gonna take her away from me, so I took care of her as best I could and that went on for _months_. I mean, like six or seven, and then she walked in front of a truck and that was it, she died on the spot and I…" They're pulling into the driveway, but she doesn't seem ready to stop talking, so he turns off the car and waits for her to speak.

I went to live with Auntie J. And she was amazing, I never wanted for anything and she always made sure I got the best, y'know? Always the best. She even helped me pay for my house after I graduated collage." She looks at him—for the first time in the past hour—straight in the eye and he feels his heart melting a little, _wow, that's really gay, _"My mom was thirty eight when the Alzheimer's developed, Murdock. Thirty eight. And Auntie J was fifty one. And the doctors said that there's a fifty-fifty chance that I might have it, too." She glares at her hands, "I haven't gotten tested. I can't make myself do it. And I just thought you should know what you're getting into here."

"Shannon…" he brushes his knuckles against her cheek, "It doesn't change anything." And she smiles and it's so bright and happy and he feels like a pair of wooden hands are wrapping around his neck, digging their splintery fingers into his skin, because he knows what he has to do now, so he leans over and kisses her as best he can in the tiny bug of a car and when he pulls away he can feel the sand pooling in his mouth, trying to prevent him from spilling the story, _you know she'll leave after you tell her, _but he has to say it, has to get it out.

In a flash, he tells her everything, from the moment the moment those soldiers found him, bloody and beaten, wandering around in the wilderness, to when the army doctors declared him insane and the psyche wards that followed, to how he escaped from Fairmount Hospital and came here, where he met her, and oh, yeah, he's got a dog, Billy, whom she's never met because he wasn't sure if she liked dogs or not and yes, he loves her, more than anything, and…

She holds up a hand, silencing his steady stream of babble, and gets out of the car; he follows her into the house, _way to go, genius, you lost her, _and oh, God, please don't let that be true…

…wait, she's not telling him to get lost, or to go jump off a cliff because she can't stand the sight of his crazy anymore, she's telling him to wait here, and then she's gone, vanished into her attic, so he sits on the floor, like she said, and refuses to move an inch.

(^.^)

Shannon's on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, her back against the wall, as she runs over what Murdock had told her for the fifteenth time.

"Well, this is an interesting turn of events." She says aloud to the room full of inanimate objects.

_Yeah, no kidding. _Her practical side simply has to chime in.

"Ok, pros and cons time."

_He's certifiably insane. Not like, 'tee-hee, haha lookit this sock puppet I made' insane; actually, honest-to-goodness _crazy_._

"So?" she asks, "I've dealt with crazy before. Besides, I'm the one talking to a voice in my head."

_That's another matter entirely. And, he doesn't have a job. _Shannon snorts.

"Yeah, and for the first time in my adult life, I have three square meals a day, clean dishes, and I can actually see the floor in the living room. Hell, last week, he even did the _laundry_."

_While you were at work. He used the spare key to get in here while you were away, how creepy is that?_

"He put in a load of towels and made me spaghetti! Why the hell would I object to that?"

_Because he escaped from a psych ward. You should be putting a chair against the door and calling the police. You should be thisclose to shiting yourself with fear._

"So why aren't I? How come I'm not afraid of him?"

_Because you're crazy, too._

"No, no I don't think it's that." Her forehead wrinkles as she stares up at the star-sprinkled sky—when did it get so late?—and she can barely get the next words out, "I think…I think it's because I love him."

_Oh, please, you've known the guy for all of two months. How could you possibly be in love with him?_

"I don't know how. I don't know when this happened. But I do. I love him."

(^.^)

Of course, Murdock's resolution to make like a granite stone only lasted for about twenty-seven minutes, before he leaped to his feet and proceeded to clean. Casserole from lunch in fridge, fork in dishwasher, along with plate, spatula, knife, the other fork, oh, here you go, plate number one, meet plate number two, we don't want you getting' lonely, now do we?

A while later, the sun has set and he's making chicken parmesan—it's her favorite—and he's got noodles and garlic bread and everything's on low heat, because he doesn't want it getting cold, and she should be out anytime now, because she's been upstairs for quite some time now—six hours and eighteen minutes, but he's not counting, no siree-bob—and Billy is at the door, whining at the smell, but "I'm sorry, boy, I don't know if she likes dogs." But he hates it when his dog whines, so he cuts off a bit of chicken, just a tiny bit, and lays it on the porch for him.

And as the door is shutting behind him, the attic door across the room opens, and she comes out, looking exhausted and ragged, but she's out, and she looks like she's made up her mind—she's got that determined little pucker on her lips—and suddenly the fear of the past six hours and twenty one minutes crashes down on him, melting his insides and making his head hurt and the panic takes hold—which isn't exactly a good thing, since he's trying to prove that he's sane enough to have a relationship, _even though we both know you're not_—and he gives an elaborate bow and leaps across the room, babbling like there's no tomorrow.

"Hiya, Shannon, how you doin'?" he grabs the pan from the oven and start scooping the chicken onto a plate, "Hey, I made your favorite, and I did the laundry, hope you don't mind, and the floor was lookin' a bit dirty, so I took care of that, too, and, by the way, you're out of milk again, and you need eggs, too, you're down to your last three…"

"_Murdock!"_ He suddenly realizes that she's been saying his name, _way to go, idiot, now she'll think you're not a good listener on top of being insane, _so he slowly puts down the plate and spins on his heel to face her, resisting the urge to start tap dancing to the music only he can hear.

"I-I just have one question." _Oh, God, here it comes, _his palms are beginning to get really sweaty, _she's gonna want to know how it happened, about the crash and the prison and I won't be able to tell her—_he's never been able to tell anyone—_and then she's gonna make me leave and I don't wanna leave, I don't wanna go back…_ "Should I stock up on dog food?" _…not back to the way things were and…what was that? _

"Come again?" the words are too high pitched to be his, but there's no one else in the room, and she's grinning and her eyes are light up like a carnival at night and she says it, she finally says what he's been dying to hear.

"I want you to stay, Murdock. I want you to stay with me." And he doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly she's in his arms and he's spinning her around, whooping like the Indians on those old western shows and Billy's barking and she's laughing and _he gets to stay._

(^.^)

_Eight Years, Eleven and a Half Months ago_

"Hey Murdock? You awake?"

"Mmmm?"

"I was thinkin'…"

"Yeah?"

"You should move in."

"_Really_?"

"Yeah, really."

"Oh, wow."

"Yeah, wow…hey, where are you goin'?"

"To tell Roy. And the old lady at the post office. And the world."

"Well, Captain, that sounds like a fantastic plan, except for one thing."

"And what's that?"

"It's two o'clock in the morning."

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah. Now, come back to bed, I'm gettin' cold."

"As you wish, m'lady."

"Hey Murdock?"

"Yes?"

"I love you." She can feel his smile as he kisses her forehead.

"I love you, too."

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><p><strong>Gah, I think I got a cavity...<strong>

**Have no fear, ladies and gents, the action is only a few chapters away...**


	9. Surprise!

**Again, Shannon loves cussing. You have been warned. Also, school for me starts in three days, so I probablly won't be able to update more than once a week :'(**

**dramagoddess202: You and me both, sista! ;)**

**Hoodoo: Sorry, Shannon has dibs :(**

**danang1970: Thank you sooo much! You get cake. Triple Chocolate Mania! :D**

**MadTeaLady: Me, too :)**

**WriterMonkey0626: THANK YOU! You are awesome!**

* * *

><p>Of course he comes back. They all do, a little tired, a little worse for wear—nothing a warm shower and a nice hot meal can't fix—but very, very much alive. And they keep coming back; sure, it might take a week—or several—but in the end they always show up, unannounced, in the most unexpected ways. She might wake up to Murdock tickling her feet, or come home after work to see them making themselves at home—and in a way, it is their home—and each time the unspeakable torture of waiting disappears, at least for a little while.<p>

Sometimes, her worst fears while come to light, when she's woken up by obscene words being slung around like a sledgehammer and she creeps into the kitchen to see a tattered memder—usually Face—being lowered onto the couch, one or two extremities wrapped in bloody, and often times stolen, hotel sheets, and it's all she can do not to go into full-blown panic mode.

The first time this happened had been a week before Thanksgiving; she had just gotten home from work, a bag of deep-fried chicken in her arms, to see Hannibal, wielding a kitchen knife—that had been doused in alcohol, if the half-empty bottle of peroxide on the floor was anything t go by—as he leaned over a writhing B.A., who was laying on the table. Murdock had thrown himself across the big man's chest, holding him down, while Hannibal stoically dug a bullet out of his leg—_sonofabitch_, how was it possible for one body to contain so much blood?—and the bag of takeout had hit the floor with a greasy _thump_ as Face rushed past her with an armload of towels and an almost robotic look of concentration in his eyes. Shannon had slowly sunk to the ground, frozen with horror, and watched as Hannibal pulled the piece of metal out of B.A.'s flesh and proceeded to clean the wound.

Of course, after a week and a half, the grumpy mechanic was just fine; and that's how it always ends up, no matter who's hurt, no matter how bad the injury, they always turn out fine. And she is perfectly happywith that.

(^.^)

She's in the bathroom, on the floor with her head in her hands and her legs folded Indian-style, staring at the thin, white stick that's sitting comfortably on the toilet seat; she longs to dig into her well-stocked medicine cabinet—if there's one thing she's learned in her seven months with the team, it's that painkillers and various bottles of hard liquor are a must-have—but for once, she listens to her practical side and stays put.

It should be done now, shouldn't it? She checks the time her phone and with a muttered curse chucks it across the room and goes back to glaring at the piece of plastic; she swears it's mocking her, taunting her—_ooo, _somebody's_ been a baaaaad girl, and now she's going to pay the price for it—_and she growls, resisting the urge to grab a hammer and pound the damn thing into smithereens. With a sigh, she stands up and picks her phone up off the floor—_sorry, sweetie, please still work_—to check the time again. She moans and slumps to the floor; who knew three minutes could feel like three years?

She presses her head against the cool tile and goes over everything that's happened. She had been in line at Starbucks, behind a woman gushing about her pregnancy to her friend, and she hadn't meant to eavesdrop—her ears had pricked of their own accord, damn nosy things—but she'd overheard the ecstatic story of how that woman had missed her period, and how she'd been feeling really worn out because of the morning sickness and something in Shannon's brain clicked, and before she knew it she was at the drugstore, standing in front of the pregnancy tests and asking herself what could possibly be the difference between one stick and the next? You still had to pee on the stupid thing, regardless of the brand…

_ Holy shit, _it's been three minutes and suddenly she's scrambling for the toilet, reaching for the test but she accidentally knocks it into the water, so she has to send her hand in after it—she'll focus on how gross it is to be elbow-deep in toilet water later—and her fingers close around it and she's pulling it out and there it is, a pretty pink plus sign, and then she's on her feet and the test is crashing into the opposite wall and she simply stands there, unmoving, her mouth hanging open and her eyes resembling two large soup bowls.

"No." she says aloud, shaking her head and laying an involuntary hand on her stomach, "No. No _way_." This is probably a fake positive. Yeah, that's it, a fake positive, so she'll go drink a gallon of Gatorade and take the test again— that's why she bought the back-up sticks—and this is most likely no big deal and it's not real, it's not happening and…and…

And then she realizes that she doesn't mean any of that; she _wants _this to be real, wants this to be happening, and she knows now that she doesn't need to take the test again, because she knows, she just _knows_, that there is a piece of Murdock inside of her.

She's going to have a baby.

A real, live, screaming, smiling, pooping baby.

Oh, _God._

(^.^)

"Shan-non." The voice sings in her ear, "Shan-non, it's time to wake u-up." She smiles against her pillow and tries to discreetly wipe the drool from the corner of her mouth.

"Good mor-ning." She sings in reply, rolling onto her back and rubbing her eyes; he's lying next to her, his arm around her waist, "How was the job?"

"Meh, can't complain. But lookit what I found!" He pulls a frayed baseball cap from his pocket, showing it to her proudly; she gasps and snatches it from him.

"Is that Scooby?" she exclaims, turning the bright green and blue hat over in her hands, "And Shaggy and Thelma…holy crap it's the whole gang!"

"Right down to the mystery van." He adds smugly, "Don't worry, I got two. That one's yours."

"Really? Awesome!" She jams it on her head and sits up, putting her hands on her hips and sticking out her lips in a way the resembles a ducks beak, "How do I look?" He laughs and tries to pull her out of bed, while she resists playfully.

"Even more beautiful than Daphne. C'mon, I made breakfast." Just themere mention of food is enough to make her jump out of the warmth of her cocoon of blankets and into the chilly spring air—she's blasting through three thousand calories a day, now—but the second they step out of her room, the smell hits her like an axe to her fragile stomach and the hunger flees as she doubles over, breathing heavily, but getting sicker with each lungful of air.

"Shannon?" Murdock kneels in front of her, "What's wrong?"

"Eggs." She moans before sprinting for the bathroom.

(^.^)

Murdock finds her with her head halfway in the toilet, horrible puking sounds echoing in the room.

"Shannon?" he stands behind her, holding her hair back, as the last of her food—looks like half digested chicken—comes barreling out of her mouth.

"Ugh, God I hate this." She stumbles over to the sink and grabs her toothbrush; he regards her with his head tilted to the side.

"Y'know, if you didn't want eggs, you could've just said so." She laughs and spits out the toothpaste, then turns slowly to face him.

"Murdock…" she bites her lower lip, a frown furrowing her brow, _she looks really ugly when she does that—quiet, she's trying to tell us something—_"Listen I…I'm…kinda…well, not kinda, all the way, but…um...well, y'see I...Gah, this shouldn't be so hard!" She collapses to the floor, and rests her head in her hands; he plops down in front of her.

"Maybe you should just blurt it out. It's what I do!" She simply nods, staring at him, and he's an inch away from losing his focus, so she'd better say something soon…

"Ok, ok, here it is…I-I…well, ok, what you just saw was…morning sickness…" she studies him closely as if she's searching for a reaction, and he feels like he's missing something important here, because what's the big deal about tossing your cookies in the morning? "And…I kinda, sorta…missed my period…" He knows what she's trying to say, can feel it at the tip of his fingers, it's obvious, it's _so_ _obvious_, but he can't…quite…grasp the floating thread in his brain that's going to lead him to the answer and she seems to sense this so she grabs his hands and looks him straight in the eye.

"James…I'm pregnant." Pregnant? Pregnant with what? _God, you really are stupid, it's a wonder she can stand someone so stupid, _"We're going to have a baby." At these words it all falls together and Murdock can feel his jaw hit the ground and his throat is closing up and all he can see is a heart, not one of those kindergarten, valentine hearts, but an actual, pumping organ, with veins surrounding it and a pair of strong, healthy lungs encasing it, expanding with each breath, and he knows that that's the heart of his child…

…and then he blinks and the image is gone and he comes back to the real world, with her, and she's clutching his hands and she's smiling and laughing so hard there's tears in her eyes and he's laughing too, and then he's showering her with kisses and begging her to say it again.

"We're gonna have a baby!" She's breathing so heavily that she can barely get the words out, "Murdock, we're gonna have a baby!"

(^.^)

Desiree Gibbs is a cold, strong woman, one who does not appreciate being refused; so when her secretary—a tiny man, with a nervous twitch—informs her that Hannibal Smith declined her offer—half a million dollars and all the supplies he needs, in exchange for breaking her brother out of the second most secure prison in the country—she simply nods, because she didn't expect anything less from the noble Colonel Smith, and orders an extensive background check on the four men of the A-Team, focusing, in particular, on any family or friends they might have.

She's at her desk, riffling through various papers, when he returns; she doesn't look up from her writing, and instead waves a hand, indicating that he should proceed.

"Smith and Peck have no family." He tells her, shifting the two files he's holding from one hand to the other, "Baracus does have a mother; she lives in Chicago, in a rather bad part of town." This catches her attention; she holds out her hand and he gives her the manila folder containing Michelle Baracus's full name, address, and a copy of her I.D.; Desiree studies the picture—a rail-thin African American woman, with a small, but stern smile, and a no-bullshit gleam in her gaze—for a moment.

"Her neighborhood, is it crowded?"

"Very." She narrows her eyes; _it could be done, _she muses, _yes, it would be noisy and could get ugly, but it could be done. _She puts the picture aside and looks expectantly at her lackey.

"Anyone else?"

"Uh, yes." He straightens his shoulders as he hands the file over, as if he's proud of this accomplishment, "I had to dig really deep to find this one; Shannon Jackson. She was reportedly Murdock's girlfriend around ten years ago. They haven't been in contact since the plate debacle, but they were together for about eight or nine years. He doesn't strike me as the type to forget about something like that." The photo is that of a grinning young woman, with a harried, out-of-place look about her.

"What about her area? Populated?"

"No," he smiles widely, "She lives in the middle of nowhere; the nearest neighbors are about a quarter mile away in all directions." _Good, good. _Desiree glances at the picture again and sighs as she rubs her temples; she hates doing this, having to drag an innocent girl into this mess, but she knows her brother, foolish weakling that he is, won't last another month in that prison.

"Get her. Bring her in and then contact Smith." She closes the files and locks them neatly away in her desk drawer-at the same time tucking away that annoying feeling of guilt-and leans back in her chair, crossing her legs and steepling her fingers together, "Now, about the donation to the senator's campaign…"

* * *

><p><strong><span>Dun dun duuuunnn!<span>**

**Review, or I'll name the baby something awful, like Snivilus!**


	10. Attacks

**WriterMonkey0626: Yay! Thank you!**

**Hoodoo: Mmm, yes, B.A. does have the tendancy to get sht in the leg, doesn't he? ;)**

**dramagoddess202: Y'know, it worried me at first, but then I thought: if Murdock can pull himself together for his team (when they're on missions) it only makes sense that he'd be able to do the same fr his own child.**

**MadTeaLady: I'm glad you think so! And don't worry, snivilus is off the name list!**

**danang1970: Thank you! And I do beleive any child of Murdocks and Shannons will certainly be different...mmm...*scribbles something on 'Ideas' list***

**By the way, I've decided to start using actual dates where flashbacks are concerened, simply to make it easier for me. **

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><p><em>September 11, 2001<em>

It's just a day, just another day; morning, breakfast, work, in that order. She doesn't expect anything different when Murdock kisses her goodbye, doesn't know what lies ahead when she sits down at her desk and picks up her sketchbook; but when the phones start wringing and the crying breaks out she knows something's wrong. She's just about to ask Johnny what the hell is going on when his voice comes crackling over the intercom—and if she wasn't suspicious to begin with, _that _certainly would've set her alarms sounding, because the man hates to use the intercom—announcing that everyone can leave early, to be with their loved ones.

Shannon, her stomach folding in on itself with dread, turns to the woman in the adjacent cubicle.

"Hey, Brayden, do you know what's going on?" Brayden stares at her, green eyes swimming.

"You mean you haven't heard?" Shannon has to literally bite her tongue to keep back a sarcastic retort as she shakes her head, "There was a terrorist attack in New York. Two planes flew into the World Trade center." The two women stand there for a moment, staring helplessly at each other, before Shannon's body goes on autopilot; her legs carry her down the stairs and outside, her numb brain barely registering the fact that she left her purse at her desk as she starts the car. The deepest, most selfish part of her mind—the only section that's actually functioning—prays that Murdock has yet to turn on the T.V.; she can only imagine the buried horrors this event will bring to the surface.

(^.^)

He's nearly bitten off his fingernails by the time she gets home; the T.V. is as loud as it can get, the echoing screams filling the house as she goes to him and tenderly takes his hands in her own, barely seeing the blood.

Then she catches sight of the smoke filled screen and it's all she can do not to shriek as a man throws himself out of one of the top floors of the burning building; she stares, transfixed, at the flames licking up the twin towers like greedy tongues, the plummeting bodies and when the voice from the T.V. announces the death toll so far-a number she doesn't want to think about-she can't take it anymore, can't listen to it any longer so she presses the power button on the remote and puts her head on Murdock's shoulder.

They cry together, him weeping for the past and her for the present.

(^.^)

She comes around in the night, gasping from her own nightmare; it's the whimpering that wakes her—it always starts with a whimper—and she rolls over to see him curled into a ball on his side, the blankets creating a twisted, sweaty barrier between them. She double checks for any blood—once, she found him in a similar position, crimson streaks staining the sheets as he clawed at his ears, trying to block out Voice—and when she sees none she stands up and turns on all the lights—the dark will only make it worse—and crosses to his side of the bed.

"Murdock." She whispers, kneeling down; he's pulling out his hair, his eyes blank with horror—_he can't see me_, she realizes—so she says his name again, and again, trying to bring him back, as the whimpers turn to half strangled moans, "Murdock. James, James, _James_!" She screams the last syllable, but he doesn't react, can't pull himself out of whatever cruel world his mind has locked him in.

She knows not to touch him—learned that the hard way—so she slowly draws the remaining sheet off of him and turns on the A.C.; usually the cold is enough to drag him out of whatever fresh Hell he's in. And then she positions herself on the floor near his head and waits for him to return.

(^.^)

_January, 2001_

She's making pancakes—the only thing she can cook without setting off the smoke alarm—when he walks in, the exhaustion that always accompanies an attack evident in the deep pits underneath his eyes; he glances at the batter sitting next to the stove, then at her, standing with a dripping whisk in her hand and his purple heart-dotted apron around her waist and he knows.

"It happened again, didn't it?" when she nods he exhales and closes his eyes, the buzzing aura of energy around him dissipating, "Did I hurt you?" she shakes her head, before remembering that he can't see her.

"No." He's at her side in an instant, his emerald gaze—half Murdock, half Voice—analyzing her face, "Murdock, I'm _ok_." He leans against the counter, relieved.

"That's the third one this week." His voice is low, almost defeated; he's always had attacks, but for the past month they have become more and more frequent.

"I know." She goes to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head on his shoulder, "It's ok. We'll figure it out."

"Shannon…I don't..." He puts his hands on her biceps, pushes her away, as his eyes drill holes into the wall behind her, "I don't know what's going on…every time the lights go out…they try to drown me, Shannon, they want to bury me…" His hands go to his hair, alternating between pulling it out and smoothing it down, "…I don't know…I don't know why, but I can't push them away anymore, I can't…can't…ignore them…"

"Is it your meds?" she asks after a moment, "Are the pills not working anymore? 'Cause if you need new ones I can get them…"

"No." The word is so final, so solid, that she automatically goes on the defensive.

"Why not? I can do it, Murdock, I mean I got the Clorazepate when you needed it, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and you almost couldn't pay Auntie J's medical bills after that." He suddenly starts pacing, shaking his head and his hands, as if there's something on them, "I can't ask you to do that again, I…I won't." There's silence for a few minutes.

"Then what do you want to do?" he stops and stares at her; he's barely opened his mouth before she knows what he's going to say, "No. _No, _you are _not_ leaving, no sir, most certainly not."

"Shannon…"

"Nope. We've been through this and it's not happining, it's just _not_ _happening_."

"I can't keep doing this to you!" He shouting, why is he shouting? His chest is heaving and she can see from his wild eyes that his fingers are breaking, that's how hard he's holding on to himself, "Don't you see? I'm _hurting_ _you_, Shannon."

"Murdock, you've never _touched_ me."

"But I almost did." He can't seem to look at her, "Remember? I almost did. A lot of times."

"But you didn't. You always woke up."

"What if I hadn't? What if…what if I hurt you?"

"Murdock." His name slips out as she takes a few steps towards him, "Murdock, that's not you. When you have a…a nightmare, it's not you. You're gone and…I know you, and _that's not you, damnit_. And you won't ever hurt me. You'll always come back."

"You don't know that." He's tired, so very tired, she can see that, and the horrible truth is that he's right, she doesn't know, but she has to hope, because the alternative is almost too agonizing to think of, but she can tell, she _knows_ that that's what he's thinking of doing...

"Don't leave!" The words are pulled from her before she can stop them, "Please, please, Mom left and so did Auntie J and I couldn't bear it if you left me to." She's begging, she knows she's begging and it's pathetic, absolutely miserable, but she can't bring herself to stop as she crosses the room and buries her wet face in his shirt, "_Please_." It's so wretched and weak, that word, but somehow it works, because he's rubbing gentle circles on her back and soothing her with that maple-syrup voice of his.

"Ok, Shannon. Ok." It's not a promise, not the certainty that she wants, but for now it's enough.

* * *

><p><strong><span>I felt that the dark, scary part of Murdock's illness was not shown properly in the previous chapters, and I wanted to tie the events of 911 into the story, as a way of acknowledgeing and honoring those who died that day.**


	11. For Him

**Hoodoo: Thanks! For some reason (maybe I'm just slightly sadistic) I get annoyed when authors write stories where Murdock is the main character and yet refuse to acknowledge Voice (or whatever you want to call Murdock's dark side)**

**Astra68: His reaction is not very pretty. Just warning you.**

**danang1970: YES! I love it when people say the characters are in character. Makes me feel all warm and good inside. :D**

**WriterMonke0626: Yay! Thank you! **

* * *

><p>Face sighs and turns off the T.V., setting the remote next to him on the bed and tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling; while Murdock is his best friend, he does not share his taste in kid's shows and, unfortunately, that's all that's on Saturday mornings. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and stands up, stretching with a yawn; they'd just finished up a job for some big-shot cop, now they're heading out to one in…Indiana? Illinois? Someplace that starts with an I…<p>

He shrugs and turns to Hannibal, who's sitting comfortably on the sunken couch, an abnormally large map in his hands.

"Hey Hannibal, what time are we leaving?" the colonel doesn't even look up from the pages.

"As soon as B.A. gets back with breakfast." He answers in that cool, collected voice of his; Face sighs again and looks at Murdock, laying on the floor with his head in his hand, scribbling away on a piece of paper.

"Hey, buddy, whatcha doin'?" the pilot glances up at him.

"Writin' to Shannon!" he chirps, like it's the greatest news in the world; Face tries to muster up a smile at the happy that's rolling off of his friend in waves, but doesn't succeed—which is ridicules, because he knew Sosa could never be with a man like him, a fugitive, and that that kiss was their last, and he really needs to wrap his head around that fact, because it's not going to change any time soon—so he simply puts on his mask smile and while Murdock can sense this change, he doesn't say anything.

"You know we're probably gonna be there by the time she gets that, right?" The pilot's grin grows wider and then he's on his feet, rummaging through his duffel bag on the floor, pulling out a miniature white shirt with blue sleeves and a jet stitched on the front.

"It's perfect, doncha think?" He carefully folds it up and tucks it away in the large manila envelope at his feet, "I don't wanna lose it, so I figured I'd mail it." This time, Face's smile is genuine.

"It's cute. But what if it's not a boy?" Murdock shrugs, his eyes dancing in that wild way that is off-putting for people who don't really know him.

"Shannon says she has a feeling."

"A feeling?"

"Yup, yup, a feeling!" He giggles and licks the envelope, sealing it, "Talked to her this morning. We're thinking 'bout John." Out of the corner of his eye, Face can see Hannibal's head snap up.

"John?" the colonel asks, a rather startled look in his eyes, "For a name?" Murdock nods enthusiastically, bouncing on the balls of his feet while his fingers tap out the beat to the music in his head.

"After you, Bossman!" Hannibal's mouth seems to be having a hard time deciding whether to say something or smile—it keeps opening and closing comically—when Face's cell vibrates in his pocket. Immediately the atmosphere in the room turns cloudy, because each of them know that only two people outside the team have his number; Shannon, who knows the phone is for _emergencies only_, and Charisa, who hasn't contacted him since that last kiss.

It's not a number he recognizes; he flips it open and puts it to his ear.

"Peck." _Please be Charisa, please…_

"Face?" the voice is small, helpless, and he can feel the shock go through his body at how utterly horrified she sounds.

"Shannon?" at the name Hannibal is on his feet and Murdock goes frighteningly still.

"Face, Face, they told me to call you, they said…Oh, God they were waiting for me, Face, at my house, _at my house,_ and I just woke up and they told me to call you…" She's crying, gasping the words out in one big breath, and Face can hardly hear her over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears.

"Shannon, Shannon, slow down, just calm down, alright? I need you to be very clear, ok? Who took you?" he can see Murdock crumble to the floor at the last three words, but he's too busy trying to decipher exactly what she's saying to comfort him.

"I don't know, I don't know, Face I'm sorry, tell…" Muffled conversation; Face strains to pick up anything, "They-they wanna talk to…Hannibal, they wanna talk to Hannibal, Face, tell Murdock, tell him I love him and…" There's a frantic sob and the sound of the phone being transferred to another hand.

"Colonel Hannibal Smith." It comes out as a statement rather than a question, the voice frigid, demanding; Face mutely hands the phone over to Hannibal.

"This is Colonel Smith." There's no hesitation, no fear in his voice; he listens for a moment, the conman watching him anxiously, "She's pregnant." Another pause, "I see." He glances at his watch, then at the map laying open on the couch next to him, "In about ten hours…we'll be there." He snaps the phone shut and tosses it to Face, who catches it with ease. "Find B.A. We need to be in Waterloo by midnight."

(^.^)

The bright moonlight casts long shadows in the vacant lot, the white light tumbling over the towering buildings surrounding them, spilling over the lone vehicle that sits idling in the center. Hannibal chews on his cigar the comforting smoke handing around him like a damp blanket—cool as a cucumber as Murdock likes to say—he can't help but touch the cold metal on his hip, reassuring himself that his pistol is there, hidden under his tan leather jacket, and that he's gotten himself and his boys out of stickier situations than this with a lot less.

Face is fidgeting next to him—would it kill the kid to keep still?—until, finally, Hannibal turns to him.

"What's wrong?" he asks, flicking ash off the end of his cigar; the kid glances at him, then goes back to watching the road.

"You said this guy is a criminal. A murderer." Hannibal nods, wandering where this is going, "Who did he kill?" The colonel exhales and turns his eyes to the stars.

"Lily Philips. She was seventeen. They suspect he killed another girl, too, but they could never prove it. I think his sister had something to do with that." Face rubs a hand over his eyes.

"Hannibal, we can't let him out."

"I know."

"But if anything happens to Shannon, Murdock…" He doesn't have to say anything; they both saw the look in the pilot's eyes, that fractured, almost disintegrating look, like he was breaking apart at the seams—a heavy silence echoed during the car ride here, no songs, no inane chatter, no random bouts of laughter—and when they got to the hotel, he had turned feral, dangerous, and Hannibal's heart broke when he'd had to shove that sedative in his neck.

"I know." There's a pause as Face tries to figure out exactly how this is all going to work out.

"So, what are we going to do?" Hannibal drops his cigar and grinds it underneath his heel as two nondescript black vans pull into the lot.

"It's all in the plan, kid." The woman who steps out of the vehicle is tiny, every inch of her screaming of frailness, except for her hazel eyes; cold, calculating…cruel.

The sixth sense that has allowed him to survive all these years puts up a bright scarlet flag—_mess with this one and she'll have your guts on a keychain within twenty-four hours_—as she, along with four massive bodyguards and a malnourished bird of a man, cross to Hannibal and Face.

"Colonel Smith." She doesn't even acknowledge Face as she smiles—half woman, half scheming crocodile—and holds out her hand; when Hannibal doesn't take it she gives a little nod, like it's what she expected, "So nice to see you again."

"Ms. Gibbs, I didn't drive all the way here to make small talk." He's using his _I'm the fucking colonel and I'm in charge_ voice—the one that got Face to shape up, the tone that got Murdock and B.A. reinstated—and something flickers across her face—annoyance?—but her smile remains the same.

"Of course not." She glances over her shoulder at one of the muscle men, who step forward and slings a duffel bag to Hannibal's feet, "A quarter of a million dollars. You'll get the rest when you deliver my brother." Hannibal glances at the bag, then at her—why is she paying them when she already has all the leverage she needs?—but he keeps his mouth shut; Desiree Gibbs has her own way of doing things, and right now he isn't in a position to question that.

"We'll need a new car." He says; she gestures to the tiny man at her right, who scribbles something down on the pad of paper in his hand.

"Consider it done."

"And a chopper." This gives her pause, but after a moment she nods.

"Whatever you need, Colonel."

"That's it. I'll let you know if anything else comes up."

"My number's in the bag. You have one month." She turns her back to them, her posse following suit, and it's all he can do not to shoot the bitch down.

But he doesn't; instead, he picks up the bag and is about to head for their car when her chilling voice stops him.

"Oh, and Colonel." She glances over her shoulder, "Think of the child your friend is carrying before you do anything stupid."

He grinds his teeth together and keeps walking; he can sense that Face is having a difficult time keeping his finger off the trigger as well. He tosses the bag into the back seat, then slams the driver side door shut and starts the vehicle.

"Call B.A. and make sure he got the tracker on those cars." He tells Face, who has the phone to his ear in a flash, "And ask him how Murdock's doing." Hannibal watches the bitch drive away, then smiles a little; he can feel his plan begin to take shape, solidify, and he allows himself, for a brief moment, to imagine the look on Desiree Gibbs's face when that plan succeeds.

(^.^)

_Iron helmets will not save_

_Even heroes from the grave_

_Good men's blood will drain away _

_While the wicked win the day_

A poem, a poem, one that Voice hisses into his ear, one that sets Murdock's teeth on edge, makes him feel as if he's falling down, and he is, he really is, he walked off the Crazy Edge a long time ago, how long ago? Time has no meaning in this dark place, cold place, wet dripping lonely place and _Good men's blood will drain away _if they're the good men, does that mean it'll be _their _blood that's draining away, washing away, slipping into oblivion? _While the wicked win the day, win the day, win the day, _oh that's not good, that's really not good, draining blood _and_ Wicked succeeding, that spells disaster, more so for some than others, like _her _the one he can't think about, dream about, whisper about, because if he does he might never get out of this pit and he doesn't like it down here, doesn't want to be here, and where's Hannibal? Bossman, Man with the Plan, always swoops in to save the day (Superman!) and he won't let Wicked win, 'cause Wicked can't win, won't win, can't win, won't can't won't can't, _can and will_, nope, not listening, not listening, and _blood will drain away, away, away, awayawayaway AWAY…_

"Captain." And just like that Hannibal drags him out of the Hole and back to reality, where the team is gathered around the sagging bed and there's notes and plans and blueprints and gauze around his fingers because B.A. is _not goin' to let nobody hurt you, fool, not even yo'self, _and they're all staring at him with concern and Murdock pastes a smile onto his face—even though they can tell it's not the real deal—because he'll be damned before he drags anyone down with him.

"I'm here!" _Gah_, too loud, too fast, but Hannibal nods and then Voice is digging metal shards into his scalp and his arms start to go numb and _away, away, away, away _NO!

"Hey, Murdock, buddy." It's Face this time, a pair of windex-blue eyes boring into his, "You have to stay here, ok? Stay with us. Otherwise you won't be able to fly Shannon out." Shannon, Shannon, Shannon, _she's dead if she has to depend on you, _no, _dead, dead, dead, your fucked-up kid dead, too, _no, no, NO! that's not gonna happen, he won't let that happen, so he bites his tongue and claws his way back to his team, where he gives a shaky nod.

"Ok." His voice is weaker than it should be, quieter than it normally is, but he manages to keep himself in the crappy motel room until Hannibal finishes going over the plan, leans back, giving his customary puff on his cigar, and asks for any questions.

"Yeah, Boss…" It's B.A.'s voice; the big man runs a hand over his Mohawk in a way that reminds Murdock of when Shannon petted him the day after they met… "Listen, once Shannon's safe, what about my mom? What's gonna stop them from goin' after her?" The numbness travels from Murdock's arms to his legs and he's tired, so tired, so he gnaws on his lower lip, concentrating on the pain to keep him from going to sleep, as Hannibal slings a duffel onto the bed and pulls out a few neat stacks of something—hundred dollar bills?—and tosses them, one by one, to B.A.

"Is there any place specific your mother would like to move too?" He asks with this cocky little chuckle, one that gives Murdock hope, because he knows that chuckle, knows that it means that the Bossman has complete and utter faith in this plan, which is enough to keep the pilot from falling back into the Hole.

(^.^)

The man who brings her the tray of food is the same one who delivered it last time—and the time before that, and the time before that, but she doesn't want to think about how long she's been here, how long they're taking, because it's enough to make her insane—and her plea is the same as it was been since she was tossed in her after that phone call to Face.

"Please." She begs as the muscled man sets the food on the cot—it takes all of her will power not to grab his hairy arm, because he might not react pleasantly to being touched—"I need my vitamins. For my baby. Please." _Folic acid for his spin. _"_Please_."_ Calcium for his bones. _The man looks at her—_ Iron for his blood—_and slowly shakes his head.

"Be thankful you've got a room with a bed." And that's it; he turns and walks out with nothing more, no pity, not a thing. Shannon pats her stomach and eyes the chicken on the tray.

"Protein for your cells." She tells him, using the fork to stab at the pile of green beans, "I'm not sure exactly what's in these, but people keep telling me that they're good for you, so…" she puts a few in her mouth and grimaces, "Eugh. Gross." She scoops up some mashed potatoes and grins, "Yummy. And I'm pretty sure starch is good for you, too." She finishes her meal and rubs her belly, imaging her fingers stroking a tiny infant head, "Yeah, I miss him, too. I miss all of them." She sets the plate on the ground and lays down on the cot, the springs digging through the mattress and into her back, "But don't you worry, kiddo. Just focus on getting strong and healthy and they'll come for us. You'll see. They'll rescue us and then we can all be together again."

Now if only she felt as certain as she sounds.


	12. Comfort

**Sorry this is so late and Thanks and a Big Bowl of Ice Cream (it tastes like your favorite!) to everyone who reviewed! It means a lot to me :) **

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><p><em>March, 2002<em>

The smell of antiseptic and cleanliness prick the inside of her nose as she sprints into the hospital, her robe flying out behind her like a pair of malformed wings, snow from outside freezing her toes together as it melts through her slippers; she skirts past an old couple, then nearly trips over a nurse pushing a cart in her desperate search for the information desk.

What in fuck's name was he doing on the road so late? How did she not hear him leave? Sure, it's been hard getting a solid night's sleep for the past few weeks—months, actually—but she should've heard _something.._.

"I'm looking for someone." She announces breathlessly when she all but collides with the white desk; the woman sitting behind it raises her head, stares at Shannon over her half-moon glasses.

"Name, please?"

"Murdock. James." She draws in a deep breath, "M-U-R-D-O-C-K." Was he trying to leave? The thought makes ice sickles form on the inside of her veins; the attacks had increased to three or four a week, but he couldn't have thought _leaving_ would help anything, right? Right?

"I'm sorry, mamm, but we don't have any patients by that name…" the secretary's voice trails off as Shannon's stomach clenches, because if he's not here…then she remembers.

"He doesn't have any I.D." The words are garbled, rushed, and she can see the lady trying to keep up, "He used his cell to call me, told me where he was and then…then he just hung up…" she swallows back the panic creeping up her throat and puts her hand a foot or so above her head, "He's about this tall…brown eyes and-and brown hair…" The other woman's eyes widen with recognition and her painted mouth opens.

"You mean Looney Tu…" She stops herself from going any further and at first Shannon thinks that Murdock's been singing again—Porky Pig is his favorite—but then she realizes that it's a nickname, a cruel taunt, and if she hadn't been so damn relieved that he's well enough to be Crazy around the staff she would've whipped out her keys and used the longest one to stab the bitch's perfect blue eyes out.

"Yes, Looney Tunes." She spits, "Now, where is he?"

"Uh, room 34b, second floor." Shannon is already hunting for an elevator by the time the other woman yells out a half-hearted "sorry"; she keeps walking.

(^.^)

She bounds down the hall of the second floor, eyes hungrily scanning for 34b. When she finds it—the number practically jumps out at her—she throws open the door and launches herself into the room.

And there he is, in a stiff-looking hospital gown, paper planes and improvised puppets littering his bed; he looks up at her and for a moment the only thing she can hear is the welcome sound of his breathing, before the brace on his wrist and the scarlet cut on his forehead swim into her vision.

"Are you ok?" _What happened? What the fuck were you doing?_ He grins and nods happily, introducing her to Engineer Fernando.

"…and he works on the _Enterprise_, can you believe it?" The paper towel in his hand opens its mouth, letting out a Spanish accent, "Yes, it's very exciting…"

"_Murdock_!" She's across the room, her purse falling to the ground with a wet thud, "You were hit by a car. An honest-to-goodness, motherfucking _car_."

"Wasn't goin' that fast." He waves his hurt wrist in the air, Engineer Fernando fluttering to the floor, "Doctor said I was lucky. Just got mesself a liddle dinged up, is all, lassie." Damnit, he knows the Irish accent is her favorite, but she's not going to let the subject get changed.

"What were you doing?" The question is soft, barely hearable, because a part of her wants to just curl up next t him and forget this whole thing happened, but at the same time she has to know. When his green gaze starts flying across the room, not focusing, not stopping at all, she knows it's bad and has half a mind to take it back.

"The nightmare." She grabs his hands before he has a chance to start ripping them apart.

"You mean an attack?"

"No. No, this was…different. A dream. But not good. Not good, Shannon" He closes his eyes as she sits next to him on the creaky mattress, "You wanted me to stop, begged me to stop, but I…I couldn't…"

"Stop what?" h, God, she doesn't want to hear this, "Murdock, what are you talkin' about?"

"The plane. I was flying the plane and the tower was right in front of me and you were next to me and you told me to stop, wanted me to go around it and the others…" His voice cracks, "The others were crying and begging but I couldn't stop, I wanted to, I wanted to, but I…couldn't…" She wipes away a tear running down his cheek, "And the fire…it was everywhere, all over, and the people…they were still, so still, and so were…so were you…and Voice said if I could dream it, I could do it, and I was scared and I didn't know what to do…" He's bawling now, they both are, and she's cradling his head against her shoulder, holding him tight.

"Shhh…it was just a dream, Murdock, just a nightmare, and Voice…Murdock, you know Voice'll say anything to upset you…" He pulls away and Shannon's arms lock around his frame, preventing him from going any farther.

"I wasn't leaving you." His eyes are open and devastated, but still the same vibrant emerald that first drew her to him, "I needed to think. That's all." She marvels at how he can read her so accurately, even in the midst of his own agony.

"I should've known." She whispers, smiling, "I should've known. I'm sorry, Murdock," She lays her head on his chest, "We'll get through this. I promise. We'll make it through."

(^.^)

Murdock's on the cold tiled floor, swimming in the pool of morning sunlight streaming through the window; he's been in the hospital for sixteen hours and the whiteness is starting to get to him—the white coats, white walls, white sickly skin of the translucent people who come to pay him a visit whenever Shannon leaves the room—and he's dancing now, in an exaggerated tango, whistling happily.

"We're gettin' out, Billy!" The dog barks and wags his tail—at first Murdock thought they wouldn't let him in, but Shannon just told him to act like the big dog wasn't there and whaddaya know, it worked!—he spins and flops onto the bed, "Today, today, we're leaving today, hooray!" he sings, the nurse passing by the open door giving him a strange look and that's why, that's the reason he doesn't like places like this, with doctors and brain people and roommates who suddenly would like another room, when all you did was sneak a piece of chicken to your dog…

And then there's a man, a very nice looking gentleman in a very dapper suit, looking all serious as the nurse who took him for an ex-ray says "is this the man you're looking for?" and Murdock doesn't understand when Suit nods his head and the nurse calls for security and _run, Dumbass, do you want to go back to the psyche ward? _And then there's hospital security uniforms coming through the door and he's backed into a corner, howling because they're trying to take hold of him and how did they find him after a whole year? _Your fat-ass girlfriend, idiot, she gave the hospital your name…_Name, a name, the name, oh, the importance of a name…—_not her fault, she didn't think about it DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!—_they've got his arms, dragging him out into the hall, he's kicking, screaming things that don't make sense even to his mind, and she's standing there, stone-still, the way she gets when she's absolutely terrified and "I'll come back, stay there, I promise I'll come back, I swear, I promise, I promise…"

She's got the discharge papers in her trembling hand and she doesn't look away, can't seem to stop staring, and her mouth is moving, but he can't hear her because some bozo is screeching, oh wait that's him, _he's_ the bozo, and _ow_, something pinched his neck and…and…

(^.^)

_ April, 2002_

Shannon tosses open the door to her home and throws her bag to the ground, collapsing on the couch and checking her phone for the twelfth time—even though she would've heard it ring, seeing as she's kept it glued to her hip since they took him to Mexico—and sighs when the screen comes up with nothing but the time. His calls are erratic and unpredictable; whenever he can get to a phone—the ward won't let him call anyone—the number he dials is hers, always hers, be it night time, work time, painting time, he doesn't care, and neither does she. Her ears are starving for his milk and honey voice, her eyes physically hurt because it's been so long since she's seen him…

And then her phone is vibrating on her knee, a loud chorus of drums and guitars blasting through its speakers and suddenly it's at her eager ear.

"Murdock?" she shouts into it; there's a laugh on the other end, a wonderfully unhinged laugh, and then he's talking, yelling, the words blurring together, "Slow down, slow down! I can't under…"

"I can fly again! Shannon, I can fly! Hannibal reinstated me, he's gonna give me my wings back!" Her jaw falls to the ground as he jabbers on, "You should meet him, Shannon, you really should, he trusts me, can you believe that? He let me fly! Shannon, I got to fly!"

"What…"

"And I used the chopper blades to deflect bullets, like on that cartoon! I was flying and we were bulletproof, actually…" She's so floored that the words "bullets" and "blades" don't even register.

"How…I mean who…"

"Hannibal, he's a legend and he pulled some strings 'cause he wants me on his team! Me! Looney Tunes, Crazy, Insane, Idiot, and Shannon…" he seems to be at a loss for words and she tastes salt on her upper lip and she realizes that she's crying, because she's never heard him so purely _happy _and then she's laughing through her tears and he's whooping and she can picture him leaping into the air and she grabs this moment, clutches it to her chest, because she doesn't know when they'll come across an instant this simple, this perfect, again.

(^.^)

_March, 2003_

The airport is busy, the river of people flowing, constantly, around her, the stone rooted to the spot; shoes clacking, voices trilling out, heavy sighs of those to tired to walk straight, but she can't make a sound, can hardly breathe around the ever-growing lump lodged in her lung. But when she sees the bright red baseball cap he's taken to wearing she lets out a half strangled sob and flings herself at him, because for the past week she's been dying to see him, hold him, reassure herself that he's alright; for some reason, losing one loved one makes her look desperately around for the others.

"I'm sorry. Shannon…" she pulls away and silences him with a shake of her head, a strangly absent look in her eye.

"She died in her sleep." She grabs his hand and drags him to the escalator, unable to stay still any longer, "Least, that's what Rose said. She just…didn't wake up." They reach the bottom of the moving stairs and she stops suddenly; Murdock has to pull her against the wall to avoid being crushed by the disgruntled airline customers steaming past them.

"Shannon…" He runs the hand that's not clasping hers through his hair, unknowingly losing his hat in the process, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

"The funeral was yesterday." She's dazed, her eyes glazed over, her mouth moving seemingly of its own accord, "It was beautiful. Sad. Rose planned it. I didn't cry through the entire thing. Not a tear, James, not a single tear. There was that song she liked, _Bye Bye Blackbird_, playing and she loved that song, did I ever tell you that? Said it was the most romantic thing she'd ever heard." And then there's a stream, a river, a frickin' ocean going down her face and Shannon's burying her face in that hollow where his neck meets his shoulder and she can't think, can't register the strange looks from the people around them or his arms wrapping themselves tighter and tighter around her and he smells different, like cheap soap and sand, and her purse feels so heavy, like a bucket of mud, and how is it possible for one piece of paper to weigh so damn much?

"I'm here. Shhhhh, I'm here." Like always, he knows exactly what to say, the right words that will wipe away a lttle of the misery clinging to her skin.

"I got tested." She whispers into his shirt; he can't hear her over the bustle of the airport, "I got tested." Louder, and this time he pulls away gently and she rushes to clarify, "For Alzheimer's. I got tested. After I heard she died…I was opening a bottle of Jack and all I could think about was if I had the same thing she had, if I…" She shudders and brings the envelope out of her bag, "I can't open it. I can't, I tried, but I…" She collapses against him again and of course he catches her—he always will—and gently takes the paper from her.

"C'mon." He whispers, "Let's go home."

(^.^)

She's on the couch, him sitting Indian-style on the floor in front of her, and they both smell like stale air and fried food and they haven't moved for a while; his suitcase is still by the door and she knows that he's tired and twitchy from sitting still for so long—every once in a while, his hand will convulse, seizure-like, a sure sign that Voice is being particularly loud—so she tries, again to open the damned thing, but something stops her.

It's fear, fear so potent it leaves an acrid taste in her mouth. And she can't do it.

She throws the little prick of a paper at Murdock and puts a miss-matched couch cushion over her face, a child hiding from bad news.

"You do it." Her voice is muffled, weak; she hears the decisive rip, the crinkle of him unfolding it, and then he's ripping the pillow from her arms and cradling her face.

"Yu don't have it." He lets out a curious sound, half laugh, half breathless shout, "You're alright, Shannon, you don't have it, you don't have it." And he's patting her hair, kissing her cheeks, but all she can do is cry, because now the wall of worry is broken, leaving her vulnerable to the grief, the darkness, the white hot pain that she's been too numb too feel—_is this what his attacks are like_?—and she curls up into herself as Murdock's hands flutter over her like so many butterflies.

"I want her back." She manages to gasp out, "I want my Auntie back."

"But she's still here." His lips are at her forehead, and she finds herself leaning into him, "She never left. She's still with you; she couldn't leave if she wanted to." The sobs are pulsating through her body like a twisted beat of a song, a pair of drums punding in her ears, so she doesn't hear the next whispered words, "Just like me."


	13. Just Breathe

**Gah, so sorry for the lateness!**

**To WriterMonkey0626, Hoodoo, Astra68, and MadTeaLady: THANK YOU! You are all awsome, fantastic people, and I wish I could thank you enough for your reviews :)**

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><p>B.A. wraps his big hands around the steering wheel, savoring the familiar texture of it, as he stares at the imposing mansion that lies beyond the line of trees he's behind; if he didn't know any better, he would be unsettled—not panicked, because B.A. Baracus does not panic—that his teammates have to search the entire building, without being discovered, but this is Hannibal and Face, the two sneakiest bastards he's ever met, so he's not worried. Not one bit. He's just picking up the hand held radio that's sitting on the seat next to him because he's just checking the batteries, not because he's dying to hear Hannibal's jazzed-up voice confirming that they've found Shannon and that the hard part is over. That's not it at all.<p>

Jesus, he sounds just like that Crazy Fool; he pushes that train of thought out of his head, like he does with everything that even remotely resembles Murdock that comes creeping into his—fully functioning!—mind. He feels a pang when he thinks of the out-of-whack pilot; twitchier than usual, barely there most of the time, and so damn _quiet_—_never thought I'd miss his singin'_—even his mom could tell something was up with him, though they'd only met a few times. B.A. just hopes he can keep it together long enough for them to…

A stream of gunfire interrupts his thoughts—_not ours_—and then nothing; a sharp sound, that of plastic snapping, echoes throughout the car, and B.A. looks down to see a crack in the exterior of the radio in his hand. He loosens his grip on it and trains his gaze on the building ahead of him; another round of bullets resonates and he holds his breath.

_C'mon._

(^.^)

"John Murdock." Shannon's lying on her back, staring at the ceiling with a look of focus not normally seen on her face, "John James Murdock. _Jonathan_ James Murdock?" She purses her lips as her hand unconsciously rubs her stomach, "What do you like better?" She imagines him sticking out his beautiful chubby arm, pointing at a name, his little forehead puckered in concentration…

What's that sound? Like a pair of kindergarteners fighting outside the door…

She sits up, ears pricked towards the scuffling coming from the hall, a sharp crack and then…nothing. It's them, she knows it's them, _it has to be them _and suddenly she's at the door, heart in her throat, as she begins pounding it with her fists.

"In here, I'm in here!" _Please, please_; a muffled curse greets her words, more scratching at the lock.

"_Shit,_ Shannon stand back!" Face? _Doesn't matter, just do it, _right, of course, so she plants herself on the opposite wall and watches as the door caves in ward to hang on what's left of its hinges.

And then there's Face, breathing hard, crimson liquid trickling down his cheek from a cut on his forehead, looking for all the world like a grungy Calvin Klein model.

"You-you just kicked in that door." She whispers, in awe despite the situation, "I mean…you…it was…that's just awesome." He's staring at her with something resembling disbelief in his eyes.

"Shannon." He doesn't sound like the smooth charmer she knows; this voice is hard, disciplined…a soldier. This is a voice she needs to listen to; she gulps and nods, her legs bring her to the door and then into the hall, to the left when he instructs it. But her bare feet step into something wet, something warm, and her eyes travel down to meet those of the muscled man who had brought her food just a few hours before.

But these aren't the eyes she's used to; these are glazed, clouded, so strange…and then her brain registers his still position on the floor, the perfect hole in his skull, and the blood, so much blood…

Face is grabbing her arm, saying something, screaming in her ear, but all she can see is the abnormally large gun in his hand, that way he carries, almost lovingly, like a child, and oh, _God, _she's on her knees, the remains of her lunch spewing out of her mouth and she can't move, can't think, doesn't want to think, because Face…is dragging her to her feet, down the hall and why is she so damn limp?

He's talking into his radio when a shot rings out from behind them and Face throws her to the ground, fires his gun, and if she were watching this from the safety of her couch she's be able to appreciate the balls it takes to shoot back, instead of simply running away as fast as he can, which is exactly what she wants to do. Then there's a loud _thump_, like the sound a bag of wet sand makes when it hits the ground, and she can see her, see the woman Face just killed, her body lying unnaturally prone on the wooden floor.

Face murdered someone. _Two_ someone's. And all she can think is that she's been shot at for the first time in her life and she doesn't want it to happen again. Then Face is yelling at her, directing her to a door at the end of the hall; she runs to it, because she just wants _out_, and then there's a stairs, and another door and they're _outside_, the moonlight slicing through her skin in a curiously cold way. A van pulls up next to them, spraying gravel that cuts into her legs, legs that are about to fail her, give way, crumble beneath her, so she tosses open the door and climbs into the back seat while Face takes the one in front of her. Bullets race past the vehicle, some cracking the windshield, and she presses her face into the leather seats, breathes in that new-car smell, and vows not to open her eyes until they're safe.

Because if she does, if she acknowledges what just happened, what's still happening, she will lose it.

"Where's Hannibal?" Face screams as the van takes what feels like a dangerously sharp turn.

"He's comin'" B.A. replies—holy shit, how can he sound so calm?—"He'll meet us at the airstrip." Airstrip? _Murdock. _She lets out a yelp when another stream of shots shatter the back window, shards of glass pouring onto her and _God, I know we haven't talked in a while, but I'll be good from now on, I'll call on a regular basis, I swear, I promise, just make it stop, please make it stop._ The tires are screeching as they whip across the pavement, another, more ominous, set of tires following them close behind…then they take another quick turn and she didn't think it was possible, but B.A. has managed to coax the car into going even faster, until there's hardly a sound behind them, so when they stop suddenly Shannon is thrown into the back of the front seat, then to the floor. She lies in a dazed heap for a moment, before the door opens and Hannibal's lined face comes swimming into view.

"C'mon Shannon." He says, before heaving her up; but she can't stand, she's too weak, too frail, which is pathetic, but she doesn't care, because…_no, _no, don't think about that, just push that thought away, yes, that's it, and when she falls Hannibal catches her and all she can do is mutter a low "sorry" as he pulls her to her feet again.

"It's okay, you're not trained for this, don't feel bad." It's almost like he's talking to a child, which is demeaning enough to put some feeling back into her legs. She manages to walk around the car and towards the helicopter waiting for them; the sight creates an electric current that shoots through her heart, making it beat even faster, and she stumbles towards it.

"Murdock!" She shouts as she pulls herself into the aircraft and there he is, her pilot, sitting in front of a panel of complicated-looking buttons and he's grinning, laughing, and B.A. is demanding a pill before he steps in that chopper with that Crazy Ass Fool and Face is smiling—the Face that she knows, not the scary soldier one—as he hands the big man a yellow plastic bottle, and Hannibal is in the co-pilots seat, chuckling and for a moment everything is perfect, all according to plan, and she can't stop looking at Murdock's wonderfully off-kilter eyes as the Colonel orders him to take off…

But once they're in the air she becomes aware of a strange sensation, a sort of warm wetness trickling down her leg and before she looks she knows what she's going to see…

The bright crimson stain on her pants has her screeching, a biting, chilling sound that stops B.A. from swallowing his pill, one that has Murdock looking at her instead of the sky, one that shakes even Face's composure.

"Shannon, Shannon, what is it?" Face has her shoulders in his hands, gripping them hard enough for bruises, but she doesn't care, doesn't care about anything, even though the chopper is steadily dropping into a nosedive because Murdock has let go of the controls and Hannibal is the eye of the storm as he takes over flying and shouts at the pilot to get it together.

Then Face is gone, shoved out of the way by B.A., who shakes her, pulls her back.

"Shannon, stop!" She dare not go against that voice; she stops and instead dissolves into panicked, choked sobs.

"John, it's John, I'm losing him, Murdock, _I'm losing him._" Even though it's B.A. demanding answers, she can't help but call out for the pilot; she looks down again, at the thick blood on her thighs, and she stops breathing, because there's something settling in her throat, expanding, growing, snaking around her lungs and her mind, cutting off her air supply, making her dizzy, but it's ok, because she doesn't think she can live without her baby…

But B.A. will have none of it; he shakes her again, cutting off the scream she didn't know she was releasing, his chocolate eyes boring into hers.

"Shannon, listen to me, listen to me." It's surprisingly calm, his tone, and she plants her hands over her mouth to prevent anything else from escaping, even as hysterical spasms shake her body, "You're not losin' him, okay? Your baby is fine. Just fine. Just keep breathing." She nods, "You hear me, Crazy? Your kid is gonna be fine." Fine, he'll be fine—_inhale, exhale, in out—_somehow, once she starts drawing exaggerated breathes, Murdock manages to pull himself together and rights the chopper, "Just keep breathing, both of you, just breathe, ok? He'll be fine, I promise, just breathe."

(^.^)

But all the breathing in the world isn't enough to save him.

The doctors call it a "complete miscarriage"—_what_ _other kind of miscarriage is there?_—they keep telling her, as she lies prone on the hospital bed, that it's not her fault; stress—like getting shot at—or perhaps strenuous physical harm caused it, or maybe nothing at all; sometimes these things just happen.

But she doesn't care about why it happened; the only thing she cares about is that it happened.

He's gone; her baby, who would've loved life, who was supposed to grow up, grow old, who was going to have his father's eyes, is gone. Just like that.

All she can do is cry.


	14. Escape

** I'm really sorry about the lateness but...well, in short, schools a pain, drama clubs a pain, life in general is just a pain! **

**And those are my excuses. Thank you to everyone who reveiwed, you make my heart glow!**

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><p><em>May, 2010<em>

The empty water bottle in her hands crackles as she twists it into a shrinking column; she stares at the imposing courthouse, where he—and his team—are being tried for something they didn't do. Wouldn't do, couldn't do; they're all too good, too honorable, to murder someone in cold blood. She knows it, even though she's never met the three men in question, and she can't understand how the military _doesn't_ know it.

The yard in front of the building is empty, save for her and a few reporters; one—an olive-skinned beauty with a sleek ponytail and ever sleeker suit—is talking to a hefty camera, recapping the events Shannon's already heard; how they disobeyed specific orders, how they supposedly conspired to steal the plates, how they murdered General Morrison when he caught them in the act.

_Not possible, it's just not possible!_

She tries telling herself that everything will be alright; that they'll find him innocent—because he is—and any moment now he'll come walking out that door, and he'll smile and wave and skip down the step into her arms, but it doesn't help; maybe it's the years she spent listening to Auntie J bashing the court system, claiming conspiracies and twisted plots, but for some reason she can't shake the feeling that this is going to end badly.

The reporter lady next to her puts her hand to her ear, where the tiniest little blue tooth resides, and her shallow brown eyes raise to stare into the camera.

"The Alpha unit, or A-Team, has been found guilty of the aforementioned charges..."

Shannon's vision goes blank.

(^.^)

_October, 2010_

She's at the payphone, pacing in front of it as she folds and unfolds the postcard in her hands; every Sunday for the past five months—since she got the card—has found her here, treading the same square path around the phone, waiting for him to call, like the card instructs. He says it's because Hannibal is going to get them out soon—she can only hope that's true—and when they do escape, he doesn't want the army going through the phone records and tracking her down. Apparently, this is the only safe way for them to communicate.

She's not so sure about that; it seems nothing is safe anymore, not her family, not the plants she's been unsuccessfully trying to keep alive, and most certainly not him. The phone lets out a shrill ring, and she practically kills a small child in her haste to get to it.

"Sorry, sorry!" She shouts to the kids enraged mother as she lifts the receiver to her mouth, "Murdock?"

"Hiya stranger!" the voice is a welcome relief, makes her sag against the building the phone box id attached to, "How you doin'?"

"Never mind about me." She replies, distractedly swatting at the air, "How are you? Did they fix the problems with your meds?"

"No, but I figured out which ones are doin' the burning and the itching." He sounds proud of himself, not like he just cured cancer, but like someone who finally figured out how to fix the faucet that's been leaking for two months, "I've just started cheekin' 'em."

"But what if you get caught? Won't they put you back in solitary?"

"Never fear, m'dear, I just hide behind the T-87 while I'm doin' it." T-87, he claims, is a massive robot designed by the underground puppet master Skynet; it is unclear exactly what his mission is, but Murdock is determined to find out, "And now, folks, we return to our contact in Reedsville, P.A., Shannon Jackson, who will describe to us how the situation has progressed. Back to you, Shannon." She laughs, then delves into the play.

"Well, Mr. Murdock, the police have managed to quell the riots, but tensions are still high after the recent shutdown of the Wendy's on Baker Street-"

"They shut it _down_" Murdock exclaims, the appropriate amount of horror and rage in his voice, "Why would they-" There's another voice, a muffled conversation, before he comes back, "Shannon, I got go." There's something, a hint of barely concealed jubilation, that sets her alarms off.

"Murdock, what is it?"

"I have a package." He says simply, a fangirlish squeal making the last syllable go up.

"What? From who?"

"Annabel Smith."


	15. Counting is easier than Remembering

**Because the last chapter was so pitifully short, and because you've all been waiting for over a month, here is the next chappie!**

**Remember: the last chapter takes place in the past, while this one takes place in the present.**

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><p>Shannon hates math; always has, always will. But there's something soothing in the methodical, mechanized order of it, the way each number has a place, how the consonants and vowels come together in her head as she counts anything and everything; the number of breaths she takes—<em>how am I still alive?—<em>how many times B.A. growls at a slow-moving vehicle chugging along in front of them—_I'm not sure I want to be here anymore—_how long it's been since they came to pick her up from the hospital—_thirty two hours, twenty eight minutes, seven, eight, nine seconds_.

She's curled up in the back seat, head resting on the window, eyes closed—_if they think I'm asleep, maybe they'll leave me alone_—Murdock right next to her; sometimes, she'll feel the comforting weight of his head on her shoulder, and she wants to respond, to shift her body so she's centered around him instead of the emptiness where her baby should be, but she can't. It's too hard to move, like she's had the ground pulled out from underneath her to reveal a sinkhole, and the more she struggles the farther she descends, and now she's in deep, so deep, so she just stays put and tries to grab whatever air she can when she can.

She feels the car come to a stop; voices float over her, little wisps of clouds to high to worry about.

"Should we wake her up?" _Face blinks about eleven to fourteen times a minute._

"She hasn't eaten anything since yesterday." _B.A. has gone over the speed limit eighteen times._

"Murdock? What do you think?"_ Hannibal has smoked three cigars since lunch; that amounts to a total of seven today._

"Leave her be." Jesus, how can he always tell exactly what she wants, even when she's only spoken two words—_I'm sorry_—in the past day and a half?

She hears doors opening, closing, feels a chapped pair of lips on her cheek, and then he's gone, they're all gone, and she's alone in the vehicle. She opens her eyes, blinks to get used to the light, and B.A.'s huge frame comes into focus; he's pumping gas and suddenly all she can hear is his calming voice, telling her everything will be ok. _I never did thank him for that, did I? _She gets out of the car, leans on it for support when she feels her legs start to give way; they prickle painfully as blood rushes to them.

"Hey." Her voice is hoarse, quiet, but he hears it; his head snaps up, surprise and a little wariness painted on his face, "Look, I just wanted…about what happened…" She stops to clear her throat; he simply waits, "What you did…for me, on the plane—chopper—I just thought you should know…it helped. You helped. And I know you hate flying, at least when Murdock's the pilot, and I wanted to say…thanks. Thank you. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't stepped in like you did." A pause. "So…yeah, thanks." He nods.

"Your welcome." In typical B.A. fashion, he ducks his head and she catches something along the lines of "Crazy ass fool would've gotten us all killed, that's what would've happened." There's an awkward silence that stretches on longer than she likes.

"So…how's your mom?" She asks; she doesn't know much about the events that led them to this, this tiny little gas station off the highway, but she does know that this Gibbs woman also threatened B.A.'s only family.

"She's…good." His tone is uncertain, as if he's not entirely sure what to say, "Face got her a new name and Hannibal used some of that money to get her an apartment in Boston, so…yeah, she's good." Shannon smiles, turns her head to follow the sight of a chubby toddler balancing unsteadily on his fat little legs; there's a dangerous memory lurking in the corner of her mind, a collection of images that will drive her crazy if she so much as glances at them, things that she's been trying to avoid this entire time, but the figure of that little boy just might bring them to the front.

"I was thinkin', once we figure things out, that I might be able to see her more often."

"That's good." She mumbles in reply, gaze still locked on the small child; he's smiling a toothless grin, trying to catch a leaf with his short stubby fingers.

"I was also thinkin' you should stay with her, just till Hannibal…"

"_What?_" the boy is, for the moment, forgotten; Shannon grabs B.A.'s thick arm, that monster Terror making himself comfortable in between her lungs, "No, no, B.A., I ca…can't…Murdock's the only thing keeping me together, B.A., without him, I don't know…" She lets go of his arm to run her shaking hands through her hair, tries to keep herself upright, "I need him now, need to be able to see him, touch him, make sure he's ok, and…and if I can't do that then…I…I'll break, I'll snap, I'll…"

"Shannon, _Shannon_." She breaks off, her chest heaving; B.A. seems to choose his next words carefully, "Look, being on the run…it's tough. Harder than you think. Always lookin' over your shoulder—"

"I'm good at looking over my shoulder." She interrupts, "And at running. I'm really good at running. Fast as lightning, that's me!" _Please, please don't make me go._ He probably would've argued more, told her she's not cut out for a life like theirs—which is absolutely true_, but I can't be alone again_—but they're interrupted by a slightly anxious Face.

"Have either of you seen Murdock?" the way he says the pilot's name—almost frantic, definitely panicked, like Murdock might've stepped off the Crazy Ledge and done something he won't be able to jump back from—puts Shannon on the alert.

"What? Why? What do you mean—"

"Both of you, chill." They each turn to B.A., who's calmly putting the pump back into the machine and closing up the car's gas tank, "He's right behind you." Shannon spins around, relief turning her vision blurry when she sees the pilot coming towards them; he'd been behind the gas station building, and the crumpled red cap in his hands and even more chaotic than normal hair indicates something is very, very wrong.

"Murdock?" He doesn't answer her; instead, he opens the trunk and grabs the loose cans of dog food rolling around in it; four pairs of eyes—Hannibal just returned from paying—watch him as he slowly, somberly, throws each can into a nearby garbage bin.

"Murdock?" she tries again, "Murdock, what's going on? Where's Billy?" He pauses for a moment, the last can in his hand, and turns to face her; she can see Voice talking to him, trying angrily to take hold, but somehow he fights back.

"I asked him to look after John for us." He whispers; she suddenly loses the ability to breathe, "That way he won't be alone. I mean, I know he has Auntie J to take care of him, but I figured every kid should have a dog growing up, ya know? Someone to play with, and…Billy…he's perfect for that sorta thing…"

She goes to him, wraps her arms around his waist.

"Thank you." She breathes into his shirt, "Thank you."


End file.
